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Jen: Route 66 Kicks-St. Louis

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[This is a work of fiction. The story is an unadulterated and unabashed attempt to tickle male fantasies and perhaps some female fantasies as well. It is a fantasy and as such, the story may or may not conform entirely with reality. With historical exceptions, all other locations, events, and characters are entirely fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.]

NOTE: This is number four in a series. At least chapter one should be read first, preferably all in order.


Miss Swifty fairly glowed as she purred down the Mother Road as we cruised toward East St. Louis. I was twenty miles from the Mississippi, the road was straight for a change, traffic was very light, and it was a cloudless, sunny day. I’d put my foot down hard on the gas pedal some time back and was doing well over a hundred miles an hour when I flashed by a crossroad and some big, roadside billboards that got my hackles up.

Sure enough, I looked in my rear view mirror and saw the flashing red gum ball machine of a black and white state squad as he blasted out from behind one of those sighs in a cloud of dust and onto the road in hot pursuit. BUSTED! SHIT!

I eased off the gas, downshifted, and rapidly slowed. The squad stayed right behind me. Yep, it was me he wanted, as if there was any doubt! The foolish thought fleetingly crossed my mind that I could probably outrun this guy, but I couldn’t outrun his radio. As they say, “you can run, but you can’t hide,” at least not in the wide open flats of Illinois. This was not to mention that Miss Swifty didn’t exactly blend into the background.

I pulled over onto the wide shoulder and stopped. Another thought flashed into my head and I said to myself, “Go for it, girl.” Just as quickly, I pulled my tube top down below my boobs, placed both hands on the wheel, and waited.

The officer took his time approaching from behind as I watched in my rear view mirrors. He had to get close to read the temporary permit in the rear window. He continued forward until he got just behind me at the door.

“May I see your license and registration, please?”

I still had my back to him as I reached over to the right to get the required ducumentation from the glove box. Without leaning down quite low, he couldn’t see much anyway with Miss Swifty sitting as low as she did. But then, I turned to face the door and he did lean down to look over the interior and take the proffered paperwork.

My naked boobs registered with him immediately. He dropped his ticket book into my lap and gulped. He also stared in shock.

After a pregnant pause, he muttered, “You were going rather quickly. What’s your big hurry?”

“Oh, no big hurry, officer, I was just sort of daydreaming as I let the rushing wind cool me off. I guess, in my inattentiveness, my foot just got heavier and heavier.”

He was young, probably inexperienced, and damned cute to boot I read his name, Ben Pistol, on his I.D. tag. Although he quickly regained his composure, he also continued to stare at my naked boobs as he talked.

“Do you have any idea just how quickly you were going?”

“No, not really.”

“Well, young lady, I clocked you at 132.45 miles an hour.”

“Really. That fast? But isn’t the Illinois speed limit still ‘reasonable and proper’ for existing conditions?”

“Yes, yes it is.'”

He was still staring. I wondered how long he intended to delay commenting on my nakedness.

“So what’s the beef then? The day is bright sunshine, good road, and little traffic at the moment.

“For one thing, that kind of speed is excessive and extremely dangerous under any conditions. You have very little reaction time in an emergency. and this is an unlimited access highway. Opportunities for disaster abound.”

“Well, I will have to concede that, officer, and perhaps it would be better or safer for me to slow down, but I’ve not broken any traffic law to be pulled over, have I?”

“No, but you did give just cause to be pulled over for a warning. And I could also give you a ticket for public indecency.”

“Oh, you noticed? When? Before you pulled me over? Because, sitting low in this closed top sports car, and at highway speeds such as I was running, it’s very difficult for anyone to tell what I’m wearing or not wearing for clothes. Come now, Officer Ben, do you really want to write me a ticket, especially after the view you’ve been enjoying?”

“Well, not a full fledged ticket, but I will have to write you a warning ticket about the excessively dangerous speed.”

He took his time writing that ticket as he still had trouble looking away from my chest. In fact, it was pretty obvious that he had drawn out this little discussion just so he could continue to ogle the merchandise. There’s also the fact that he had not once told me to cover up.

Officer Ben grew a bit more bold when he thrust my warning ticket unnecessarily far into the car between the wheel and my Beylikdüzü escort boobs. I took the ticket from him. As he withdrew his hand, he managed to cop a two finger feel as he drug them lightly across my left nipple.

Before stepping back to his squad car, Officer Ben said, “Please drive more carefully. You’re much too pretty to go through a windshield. Be careful pulling back onto the roadway.”

“Thank you, sir, I will,” I said as I turned the key on the dash and fired up Miss Swifty once more. When the officer was clear, I turned on the left turn signal, checked for traffic, and pulled back onto the roadway to resume my journey. For the time being, I also left my top down.

“Unfair advantage,” you scream. Well, you’ve likely heard the old adage, “All’s fair in…” haven’t you? This was not love and I had both the means and the will for the “war”, so–what the hell, I used them. Besides, I really hadn’t broken any law.

A few miles further down the road and nearing the metropolitan area, I decided it was time to put my top back in place. Ah, St. Louie, here I come. The last segment of Illinois Route 66 runs through East St. Louis before it crosses the Mississippi and I certainly didn’t want to drive through that area half naked.

But therein lies another rub. Where to cross the river, that is. St. Louis is the largest metro area between Chicago and Los Angeles and the realignments of Route 66 through there have been many, creating a wicked maze of choices. My pre-trip plans and notes which accompanied me were extremely helpful here. I had restudied this part of the trip again the previous night.

Initially, Route 66 used the McKinley Bridge which carried traffic onto St. Louis’ 9th Street. Some say this was not the highway planners’ first choice, but was selected after difficulties over rights of way. Once those problems were resolved, a new stretch of road was built to link Route 66 with St. Louis’ Municipal Free Bridge I think that’s the one later renamed as the McArthur Bridge. Anyway, it was used from about 1929 until 1936.

The trouble was, both of those bridges led directly into central St. Louis. To create the needed by-pass, another realignment in 1936, brought Route 66 north to the the Chain of Rocks Bridge to take the road west and then south around the city. The old central crossing continued to be used as Business 66. That by-pass bridge was my next destination.

The Chain of Rocks Bridge is one of old Route 66 and Missouri’s most famous and proudest landmarks. Much of its notoriety is due to the twenty-two degree bend the bridge makes before getting its approximate one mile length all the way across the river. The bend was made necessary for geological and navigational reasons as well as the limitations of technology of the day.

Of course, growing up in the Peoria, Illinois area, I knew of another iron bridge with an equally sharp bend near the west bank. “The Grey Lady” or the “Iron Maiden” which was the Franklin Street Bridge over the Illinois River with the Steak-n-Shake at the foot of the east end, right on the river bank. It just wasn’t as high nor as long as the Chain of Rocks Bridge, but I was anxious to get pictures and to compare the two.

Five years after I crossed it, the Chain of Rocks Bridge would close and sit abandoned for thirty-one years. Route 66 would be rerouted further south until the I-270 by-pass and its new bridge would become the new northern by-pass. Chain of Rocks would reopen in 1999 to pedestrian and bicycle traffic only. But on this summer day in 1963, traffic was heavy in both directions on the narrow old bridge.

I pulled off on both ends for pictures. I snapped some shots one handed as best I could while also keeping Swifty out of trouble as I crossed the bridge. I hope those moving ones won’t turn out too blurry.

Because this city has been considered the “Gateway to the West” since nearly its beginnings in the 1760’s, I intended to spend a day or two to take in the sights. So I elected, in advance, to turn south into the city rather than take the by-pass. I had a particular motel in mind to use as my headquarters during my stay in St. Louis.

So, as I drove on to the Missouri side, and after taking my pictures from that end of the bridge, I turned south on Riverview then onto Broadway a few miles down. The next turn was onto 7th Street and all the way “downtown” to a strong right onto Gravois for about two miles until another sharp turn onto Chippewa.

At the intersection where Chippewa became Watson Road, I stopped at one more of the famous surviving food outlets of old Route 66. 6726 Watson Road is the location of Drewes Frozen Custard, in business at that location since 1931. The famous “concrete” made there has achieved world renown, literally.

It’s a milkshake so thick that it and the spoon will not fall out if turned upside down as is often demonstrated by a server before handing over of the order. Of course, that is what I ordered. Mine Beylikdüzü escort was al old menu item called “all shook up.” I walked back to Miss Swifty in the parking lot to enjoy my treat.

Finished with my “concrete.” I pulled back onto Watson Road and drove to 7755 and the big, neon entrance sign that proclaimed, “Coral Court Motel.” The address is actually about one mile west of the St. Louis city limits. Its infamy also sounded well beyond St. Louis and Route 66 or even the United States. The motel was many things to many people.

The original ten bungalows were built in 1941-1942 and its infamy was nearly instantaneous, at least locally. To roadside fans, Coral Court was a shrine. To many St. Louisans, the motel was a rite of passage. Attending a late night prom party and escaping with a Court towel or matchbook was a must for any local teenager.

For many who preferred to remain anonymous, the motel was the place “to get that groove on.” Of course, there were always the chaste few who considered it “a monument to adultery.” How did Coral Court get its reputation?

Three reasons caused the infamy: (1) The rooms could be rented for a rest period of four or eight hours (initially created as a courtesy to truck drivers), but not actually hourly rates as is often said. (2) Every room had its own garage, so cars were hidden from passersby. The clean and cozy bungalows, with attached private garages, provided whispered asides and off-colored jokes for decades. (3) The management at Coral Court was very discreet. The legend of the motel spread across the United States and beyond.

The motel design had a big part in the reputation of the place. Those first ten units of late art deco design were built in 1941, from glazed yellow block and opaque block, large glass windows. To further make them distinctively different from any other motels, the court was made up of separate bungalows consisting of a room on each end connected by a two car garage between them, one garage for each unit.

The first five bungalows made up the first ten rooms. By the time I arrived in 1963, the number of bungalows had expanded to look like a small village. The complex would close in 1993 and be demolished in the name of urban renewal and progress in 1995.

Anyway, I drove between the stone entrance gates and found the office. I parked Miss Swifty and got out. You can find my bragging description of my nearly full optioned, Z06, split window, coupe in chapter one. I was quite proud of that car the ten years I owned it. My room was two streets over from the office, so I got back into Miss Swifty or just Swifty, as I called her, and drove over to my room.

I drove Swifty into the provided garage and unpacked what little baggaghe I had. Sports cars have very little room for more than two people. I was also in desperate need of a shower, so the next thing I did was to strip. When I was naked, I stood in front of the full length mirror a moment to admire my twenty-two year old body.

My “swinging” 38s were momentarily still, silver dollar sized aureole sprouting inch long, erect nipples and goose bumps. I say swinging because, in warm weather, I usually go braless in a halter or tube top and then they really do swing.

The rest of me was nothing to sneeze at either. A twenty-six inch waist and thirty-six inch hips went along with a tight, compact and nicely rounded ass. My flaming red hair, top and bottom, was set off with light green eyes and fair skin with only a tiny smattering of light freckles. I’m still athletically fit as I exercise regularly, usually a long, early morning run. Though just recently, those runs were fewer and farther between.

I’d not had a good, or any other kind, of fucking for a while and for me, that is highly unusual. I normally get fucked at least two if not three times a week. And, when I say fuck, I mean at least once to twenty times during that day. So, I was horny as a member of a sheik’s harem who’d not had a visit for over a year.

I love sex, I need sex, I want sex, so I actively seek out a fuck partner. That’s both a disadvantage and an advantage for a single girl. But, with the sixties sexual revolution, among others, underway, it was not difficult at all to get fucked nearly as often as I wanted.

While thinking about these naughty and erotic thoughts, I rubbed my 38s with one hand and played with my pussy with the other hand. The erotic electricity generated by these actions soon did grab my attention and I continued in earnest.

I did a three sixty in front of the mirror, craning my neck to keep watching my image while keeping my hands moving. My tingling pussy suddenly got very wet as pussy juice began bubbling out and down my thighs. My middle finger was running up and down my slit, sliding up and under my expanding clit. That miniature penis responded by telescoping way out, swelling into quite a fat little sausage.

I reached into the shower and turned on the taps just before I Escort Beylikdüzü shuddered into a powerful orgasm. When I got my breath back, I stepped into the shower and cleaned myself up. Finished, I stepped out and toweled myself dry before trying to decide what to wear out to supper.

Finally, I decided on a light, summer print dress with a fairly short hem line. No panties and no bra. I would have to watch any backlighting–my naked body would be perfectly silhouetted through the thin dress. My bare feet slid into my sandals and I put a gold chain and cross around my neck.

The little entrance area of the room had two doors. One led directly outside and the other led through into the garage. I went into the garage and back to the overhead door to open it. As it opened, a man was revealed, standing in front of the garage door to the other room. I judged him to be in his mid thirties.

He said, “Hi, I’m Justin Jackson. I’m a state sales manager for Red Foot Shoes and I’m staying in the room on this end of our bungalow. Are you headed out for something to eat? I hate eating alone.”

“Yes. And I don’t like to eat alone either.”

“Well then, would you care for my company to an eating establishment on this beautiful evening?”

Would I care? Duh, he was the answer to my prayer. I just hoped he was capable of holding up to what was in store for him tonight when my pent-up sexual lust was unleashed.

“Just let me back my car out and hop in,” I answered.

I’d both door windows open on Swifty, so I heard the long, low whistle Justin emitted as I backed the car out into full view. He opened the door and fell in.

“Some fucking set of wheels.”

“Fucking is the operable word there, Justin.”

It only took a few minutes for Justin to direct me to a dinner club with entertainment. As we entered, the Maitre d’ greeted us with, “Good evening Mr. Jackson, your usual table?”

“Well,” I thought, “This could get very interesting. I wonder how many other ladies he’s escorted to dinner here!”

We were ushered to a small, secluded alcove that overlooked a nearby stage about two feet below us, close enough to be within spitting distance. We could see directly onto the stage, but only a couple of other tables of diners could see us. Of course, anyone on the stage could see us if they were so inclined. We were sitting facing each other with the stage off to our side.

We had a sumptuous, five course meal to the accompaniment of some very romantic music played by a string quartet. All during the meal, Justin looked into my eyes or at the rest of me and mentally undressed me.

While he looked, he also had a stocking foot constantly rubbing my inner thighs under my dress. As dessert was served, he moved the foot onto my pussy. Upon finding my pussy naked, a big smile of satisfaction appeared on his face.

Then, incongruously, because of it’s content contrasting with the the surroundings, with dessert also came the floor show. The string quartet played very beautiful, classical, romantic songs as a gorgeous young couple came on stage and did a slow, romantic, strip dance!

Languidly, sensuously, erotically, and ever so slowly, they stripped each other as they danced. When the couple were both naked, the man stepped up and into the female with his long lance, and it was long, very long. They embraced tightly as they continued to slow dance coupled together.

The dance shortly became more of a swaying in place as they began to thrust into one another, again in slow motion. In a few moments, all motion stopped except for a final, mutual, and very deep thrust that produced a very obvious orgasm in both partners.

In me too! It also looked as if Justin might have “creamed his jeans” as well, I was diddling his cock hard enough with my bare foot.

The two dancers slowly uncoupled with sensuous grace and walked off the stage, arm in arm, each head on the other’s shoulder to the thunderous applause of the dinners.

WoW! A live, nude, sex show in 1963, in that kind of setting? I don’t know how they did it, or who paid whom off to permit it, but I guess anything is possible in the big city.

Shortly thereafter, the waiter brought the bill on a small silver tray. Justin laid his credit card on top and the waiter left only to return soon with the card. I didn’t get a look at the total bill, but it had to be a whopper. Justin and I then rose and left the club.

The Valet brought the car around and I drove us back to the Coral Court and our rooms. As I pulled up to my side, I asked, “Would you like to come in for a night cap and…?”

Justin’s reply was, “I thought you were never going to ask!”

So, Justin got out, opened my garage door, and I drove Swifty in and parked. Justin opened the door for me and followed me in. I turned around and we fell into each other’s arms in a passionate, French kiss. Our mouths opened. Tongues entwined. Lips smashed together again in a hard grind. Hands roamed.

Justin’s pants tented out big time. My pantyless pussy was drenching my thighs. I ripping off Justin’s shirt and then his undershirt. The buckle on his belt gave way to my tugging and I jerked his pants down, shorts and all.

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