Burn Down The Night by Craig Kee Strete Read Free Book Online Page A

piece.
    A leg appears as
if by magic across my left shoulder. A soft, warm girl's leg. I figure they're doing Numbers 17
through 26 in the Kama Sutra.
    Hot leg brushes
across the side of my face, like touching a live wire. I almost got to sit on my hands to keep
them from grabbing onto the leg and dragging it up front. My pants are so tight on me my eyes are
swimming.
    Somehow we whip
through the curve, still on four wheels, straighten out and ride into another one. Driv­ing is
tricky here, takes her mind off me.
    A cop car goes by
going the other way. Morrison groans. I quietly go mad. I'm hornier than a hot rabbit with socks
on.
    A very married
looking couple in a blue car pull up level with us as we slowly dip into another turn. Mr. and
Mrs. Straight America.
    They stare at us.
Both about fifty and constipated. He's driving, both are staring. He's pop-eyed, looking at our
colorful back-seat window display. He must catch them changing position or something. Mr.
America's got his mouth open in an imitation of the Grand Canyon.
    We make the turn,
then make another one. Mr. America, eyes still on our traveling exhibition, plows straight ahead.
Misses the curve completely. I turn around just as they leave the road.
    Don't see the
crash but have lots of fun imagining it.
    "You're
frightening the horses, for chrissakes," I mutter under my breath.
    Then Sandy starts
having an orgasm. Excited, throaty little bursts of pleasure. Jesus! I can't stand it! I should
have jumped out the window and lacerated my­self to death.
    Can feel her
pleasure pumps all up and down my spine. That same hard kick you get from rock and roll. That
same hard kick I first got on the seventeenth hole of the Northmoor Golf Course, me fourteen, her
thir­ty-eight. Ah, sex, where is thy stain?
    Why didn't I move
faster in getting into the back seat? Could have been me back there. Should have been me. I open
another bottle of beer, lift it to my mouth, making a mock toast.
    "And here's to the
boys in the back."
    Gail squeezes my
lap, most painful grip I've ever felt. Damn near went through the roof. Head slams for­ward,
crotch spasm. Tears in my eyes. Who was the bastard who invented tight pants?
    Gail is panting, face flushed. Somehow
she's managed to unbutton the top three or four buttons of her shirt. Three hundred pounds of her
is hanging out.
    "Maybe I should
pull over," she says, reaching for me.
    I sit up straight,
beating her hand away with a frantic flurry of blows. "No!" I shriek, hysterical. "I mean no! "
    "Let's get
down!"
    I have to do
something quick. "I... I... Hey, listen, we'll be at the party soon. I'll get you at the party!
Yeah! See I need lots of room. I don't like quickies ei­ther. Uh, yeah, get you there, then I
promise I'll screw all night long!" I'm talking faster than a Speed Queen dishwasher.
    Gail blinks a
couple of times, processing the infor­mation through her fat or something.
    "Okay. Beds are
better anyway," she says finally.
    Background, those
tense hot little come sounds. Unnnnh! Unnnh!
    Gail looks
feverish. "I can hardly wait. We're only a couple of blocks away." Another crotch squeeze and I
double up.
    Unnnh!
Unnnh!
    "We get to that
party and..." Gail leaves the sen­tence hanging, just pants at me, looking like a bullfrog with
hormone problems.
    The loudest one
yet. Unnnnnnnnnnnnh! Sounds like the big casino.
    I quietly tear my
fingernails out. If I get any hornier, I could defy gravity.
    Silence from the
back seat and exhausted breathing.
    Let's hear a big
wet cheer for Saturday Night L.A. Sex in cars and topless bars. Big-breasted chicks who dance
taps on the tops of tables in the back rooms of racing stables. Chicks who drink and smoke big
cigars and get it on in double-parked cars. Let's hear it for too much dope, too much booze and
all the chicks you'd make if you could choose.
    Horny! If I tripped trying
to get out of the car, I'd pole-vault clear across the