Welcome to Vegas

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As you travel through the Nevada desert, there are signs indicating you should turn off your air conditioner to prevent your car overheating. Being there now, on foot, I can tell you it’s no exaggeration and advice I likely should have adhered too. The fireball in the sky feels no different on my back than its description implies, and it doesn’t seem to matter how far I stick out my thumb, no one’s stopping.

The only consolation on this dreadful trip south through the land of opportunity is the scenery- no less spectacular now as I trek toward the summit of Red Rock Canyon Park. I’ve never seen mountains without trees before. Although the earth is barren and seemingly devoid of anything remotely resembling life, there’s a mysterious beauty to it, or perhaps that’s just heat stroke.

One foot in front of the other- a hand on my head to save my hat from the western wind that does little but move the arid desert air- that is my only option. Each breath dries my throat, until my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I stop my forward motion and lift the water bottle that had seemed ample when I left the California border by way of car but seems dangerously limited now that I’m eyeing the last third of the life-saving liquid on foot.

As I tilt the bottle back, ignoring how easily the plastic molds to my hand, I hear the crunch of tires on pavement approaching, then slowing. A red fender creeps below my vison, the white-walled tire’s silver hubcap reflecting the mid-day sun.

Swallowing the last gulp of aqua, I lower the bottle and search for the car’s driver. I find her looking back at me from her classic- although I know nothing about cars- cherry red convertible. Blond hair brushes her shoulders, ruby lips stretched in a smile. A glance below her chin reveals a white shirt, completely unbuttoned and just covering her nipples. I snap my eyes back up to her cherub-like face.

“Hey there, honey,” she begins. Her voice carries a southern lisp; my guess is she’s not from Nevada, but being from Seattle, what do I know?

“You need a lift?” she continues, one side of her top lip curling up in a sort of smile. “It’s mighty warm out here today. There’s only about thirty miles to Vegas, but on a day like this, you could be a raisin before you get there.”

“Thanks, I thought I was close to death.” I say, throwing my guitar case and meal ticket, and the empty bottle into the back seat, attempting to be polite and keep my line of sight above her breasts. When I sit in the passenger seat, I find she’s wearing even less under the thin fabric than I thought. The shirt tails are tucked between her slender thighs, and the lack of panty lines tells me they’re currently the only thing hiding her feminine center from view.

“Nah, you were good for a while yet,” she replies putting the car into gear and creeping onto the freeway.

“How do you know?” I ask, eyeing her while still trying to be a gentleman, which is almost impossible as her unbuttoned shirt begins to billow around her lithe frame. She’s tanned to a honied glow, and a golden ring peaks out on one nipple.

“No vultures.” She points up to clarify. “They sense impending death, and they’ll start to group and circle above you. That’s when you should worry.”

I search the sky, finding it clear and blue, the fire ball directly overhead. But no vultures.

“What’s taking you to Vegas? I assume that’s the reason you’re wandering in the desert,” my driver asks. I look over to see her staring at me, one hand on the wheel, fingers tapping along to a song only she can hear. The other arm is extended along the back of the seat and her shirt is no longer protecting anything but her delicate shoulders and arms from the sun.

“Starting a new job at the Excalibur. A band gig for the big shows.” I reply, my eyes popping back to the road in front of us, but not staying there. I can’t blame them. She’s full of life and ripe for the taking. And the Nevada desert? Dry and endless. There’s no competition.

“I work in Vegas too. As a burlesque dancer.” She waggles her eyebrows at me implying something I’m not quite sure I’m understanding. “Left home two years ago to make a clean start. Best decision I ever made. I was just coming back from a party in Indian Springs and saw you with your thumb out. You know hitch hiking is frowned upon in this part of Nevada, yeah? Good thing I saw you before the sheriff did.”

She may have said something else, but somehow my eyes have wondered to the now untucked shirt tails that are whipping around her waist, giving me a clear picture of her shaved pussy and pierced clitoral hood. The gold ring there matches the ones on her nipples perfectly. My mouth runs dry, and I reach for the bottle that lays in the back seat.

“My ride broke down, no other way. Job starts tonight, so I need to be there.” I reply, my words jumbled.

Unscrewing the lid, I investigate the bottle’s interior with one eye. There’s nothing more than a single drop. It won’t be sufficient, but it’ll be better than what I have now. I tilt the bottle and wait and wait until the one droplet skitters over my tongue. It’s barely enough to bother swallowing.

“I don’t have any water in here, but I do have something else that may wet your whistle.”

When I look over, her hand is no longer on the back of the seat but has instead settled between her thighs. A flick of her wrist informs me she’s putting her fingers to good use. This action does little to improve the terrain inside my mouth but is remarkably effective at increasing blood flow to a new area.

“I’m sure just a taste will have you feeling better in no time.” Her eyes look innocent enough, her smile does not.

“How is that even possible?” I ask incredulous, but certainly not opposed as I’m already unfastening my seatbelt.

“Cruise control, silly. Invented in 1948. By a blind guy, I can’t remember his name.”

“Isn’t that a bit dangerous, while you’re driving?” If my dick had hands, it would have them wrapped around my throat to shut me up.

“Weren’t you just walking in the Nevada desert with nothing but a hat, a guitar, and a cup of water? Come on. Live a little.”

She has a point.

“There’s about eighteen minutes until we get back to the city limits. Until then, it’s just you and me and the open road. If you want, we can switch places?” I could almost come then and there, but shake my head, strangely lost for words. “Then, get on it, son,” she says with a laugh, her southern lilt in full force.

What’s the worst that can happen?

With no time to spare, I twist and lay down on the seat, pressing my chin against the leather and bending my knees against the door, feet in the air. She presses a button, shifts, lifts her leg, and puts her right foot on the seat. Her pink center and entrance greet me. My mouth is no longer dry.

“Sixteen minutes.”

I dive in, driving my tongue between her folds. She moans- the sexy sound carried away by the wind- and puts her free hand on the back of my head. Then pushes up her hips. She smells like the ocean, and of something else. Something purely her, and very intoxicating. I swirl my tongue in a figure eight, finding a rhythm she likes. It doesn’t take long before her hand is tightening in my hair.

“Don’t forget to use your fingers, honey. They’re the best part.”

Fuck me, I don’t care if I die. What a way to go.

I don’t need instructions twice. I slide my pointer knuckle deep into her wetness. She’s surprisingly snug, but easily takes a second. Her channel squeezes my digits tightly and my cock jumps, eager to get in on the action. Not today pal.

Once her juices are flowing, I press up on the spongy area and her hips jolt. The car swerves slightly but is easily corrected. Her fingers clamp in my hair like a vise.

“Right there, honey. That’s the spot. Only a few minutes left,” she says, her voice clear, if somewhat breathless.

I push my fingers harder, curving them where she needs them. Then suck her tiny button between my teeth and hold it as I flick my tongue. When her legs start shaking, I know she’s close.

“City limits, red light. I’m gonna’ come!” Her moan is loud and vibrant, the fervent pleas that leak from her lips a seduction of their own. She holds me close to her core as she rides out the waves of ecstasy. I continue licking until she’s pushing me away, sultry whimpers begging me to stop.

The car starts moving again, and we turn left.

“We’re here.” She says as she places the car into park.

I sit up and face her, grin stretching from cheek to cheek. Her cheeks are rosy, and her hair is layered around her face like a halo. Those ruby red lips are stretched in an easy, satisfied smile.

“Mmm, that was real good, honey. Maybe we can finish later? And you can have a turn? A bunch of us are getting together around midnight. Your shift should be done by then.”

“Do you do this a lot?” I ask, catching my breath.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you? What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.” She finishes with a wink. “Here’s my number. Let me know if you need a ride.”

When she drives away with a quick wiggle of her fingers, I stand awkwardly and stare after her, my eyes catching on the sign that reads Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas Nevada. As I enter the hotel, I see my reflection is the glass door and can’t hold back my smile. My chin still glistens, and I’ve lost my hat.

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Cruise Control was invented in 1948 by Ralph Teetor, who was in fact blind. The first four wheeled cars using crusie control were manufactured by Chrysler in 1958 and an option in the Chrysler Imperial.

Welcome to Vegas was written for the Wicked Wednesday Prompt; Hitchiking. For more tales about that, hit the bullseye!

You can find more fiction, here.

Looking for somethign about MrsK’s travels? Check this out.