Candid Confessions Bundle #3 (5 page)

I spread my legs so that one knee was touching the
rear of the back seat, while the other pressed against the front
seat. Then I began to move my body up and down on his shaft,
allowing him to penetrate deep within me.

‘You are fantastic, Angel. I’m so glad I asked you
that question,’ Lars groaned. ‘This is the highlight of my trip so
far.’

‘I’m glad, too. You’re body really turns me on.’

I slid up and down the length of his cock,
increasing the pace and pushing to get every piece of him inside
me. I was enjoying every second…

And then the cramp struck.

‘Owww!!! Ouch…oh, fuck!!!’

I hate it when that happens. I mostly get cramp
after doing a lot of driving, as I had that day. Having one foot
ramming down on the throttle seems to do weird things to the
muscles. I always get it in the same place – in the calf of my
throttle leg. When it strikes, the pain is agonizing, and the only
cure is to straighten the leg and hop around until it all
subsides.

‘Fuck…cramp!’ I shouted. ‘I’ve got to get
out…quick!’

I leaned forward and opened the door behind Lars.
His head fell back and cracked the door frame, but I was in too
much pain to give a damn about that. I scrambled over him,
accidentally dumping my pussy in his face as I climbed out. Then I
was out on the grass, hopping around like a lunatic. It was cold
out there, of course, but I didn’t give a damn about that. And I
didn’t give a crap about who might be watching. I stumbled into the
fir trees, trying to stretch my leg. Gradually the pain subsided
from agony to mere discomfort. I felt the back of my calf. The
muscle was still distended. I continued limping through the trees
until everything worked back into place. Pine needles and stones
pricked at my feet, but I was too focused to care. Eventually, I
felt everything was back to normal. All of a sudden, I was aware of
the cold. I started to shiver.

I looked around. Where the hell was Lars? I thought
he might have followed me with a coat – or at least with an
expression of concern. But there was no sign of him. I started
working my way back through the trees to the car. I had gone
farther than I had realized, and now I was more aware of sharp
things sticking into my feet. So it took me a while to get back to
the Rocket.

When I got to the Pulsar, it was eerily silent.
Still no sign of Lars, either in the car or out. I opened the
passenger door and looked at the foot well by his seat. His
backpack was gone.

The bastard had fucked off.

***

I didn’t hang around
waiting for him. I knew better than that. I have plenty of
experience of guys getting their leg over and then making a run for
it. But usually not quite so literally. I guess he had decided a
woman with cramp was just too much trouble. Plenty of Canadian
girls around here who would melt at the sound of his accent.

Bastard.

Never mind. Worse things happen at sea, as my Dad
always says. He has never specified exactly what those things are,
and as he has lived in the Montana forest all his life, I have no
clue where he found out about them. But I’m sure he knows what he
is talking about.

I got dressed, fired up the Rocket and got back on
the freeway. I was a bit pissed off now. All that fluffing around
with Lars had put me behind schedule. I needed to get to Toronto
that evening. I reckoned I had about 130 miles to go, but when a
road sign finally came up, I got a bit of a shock. It said:

Toronto………….220

Two hundred and twenty
miles! Heck, that was
way
more than I had expected. If I
didn’t put my foot down, it would be really, really late before I
got there. I would have to get a move on. I wondered what the speed
limit was on Canadian freeways. I had no idea – this was the first
time I had ever ventured north of the 49th parallel. I looked out
for speed limit signs, and when I saw one it was good news.

100

100 miles an hour.
Awesome! That was higher than I had anticipated. I would be able to
make up some time if I put the pedal to the metal. I put my foot
down and the Rocket reluctantly revved up to what was probably the
highest speed it had ever attained. The whole car started to shake
and shudder, and something behind the dashboard made a strange,
grating noise. I turned the radio up to full volume so that I
couldn’t hear it. I found a station playing Metallica’s
Enter
Sandman
and that did the trick. I rocked along at high speed,
singing along as I went.

Exit light. Enter night. Take my hand

We're off to never-never land!

I think the Rocket
likes thrash metal as much as I do, so we edged a little faster,
both of us making a hell of a lot of noise. We started making good
time now. The miles ticked by, and although the Nissan protested,
it kept going…well, like a rocket! What a car, huh? The best three
hundred bucks I have ever spent. It was getting dark, so I flicked
on my headlights. The speedometer edged up to nearly 100 miles an
hour and kind of jammed there. Luckily the freeways in Canada are
pretty good, so there was no need to slow down.

I didn’t notice the police cruiser until I became
aware of something flashing in my mirror. When I glanced up and saw
the red and blue strobe light, my heart sank.

Bummer.

The Rocket and the police rarely get along well
together. They seem to have opposing views on what constitutes a
safe and legal automobile. The police car overtook me and then
pulled in front of me. I saw the police officer inside point at the
emergency lane. Even a dumb American like me could work out that I
was supposed to pull over.

I think that what happened next was entirely his
fault. Really. If he had given me some space to stop properly,
there wouldn’t have been an issue. I could have allowed the Rocket
to glide slowly to a halt in the usual way. But the police officer
seemed intent in forcing me to a quick stop.

Fat chance of that.

The police car braked, and I had to brake, too. I
mean, I tried really, really hard. I slammed my foot on the brake
as forcefully as I could. I yanked at the parking brake until it
was pointing up in the air like Lars’ dick. But it was no use. The
stopping distance was just too short. The police cruiser stopped in
the emergency lane, and the Rocket gently cannoned into the back of
it. There was a horrendous crunch, and one of my headlights went
out.

Oh, fuck!

The police officer got out of his car and stepped
round the back to inspect the damage. Under the glare of my
remaining headlight, I could see a gun in his holster, and a pair
of handcuffs hanging from his belt. I made a mental note not to
upset him. One of his back lights was out, too. He shook his head
in disbelief, then came over to my window. Fortunately, I know
exactly what to do in such situations. This is where girls should
play the helpless female card to full advantage. As I wound down
the window, I slyly undid a couple of buttons on my blouse. With a
male police officer, a bit of cleavage often helps a lot.

‘Sorry about that, officer,’ I cooed in my sweetest,
most innocent voice.

The police officer bent down and poked his head
through the window. He shone a flashlight inside the car, making me
blink. ‘Does your car have a problem stopping ma’am?’

‘Oh, no. It stops just fine. It just takes a little
while longer than other cars.’

The police officer winced, as if he was suffering
from a migraine. Must have been the stress of the job, I guess.

‘Ma’am, do you know what the speed limit is on this
stretch of road?’

‘Oh yes, it’s a hundred. I checked the signs.’

‘And do you know how fast you were going?’

‘Less than one hundred miles an hour, officer. I
never exceed the speed limit.’

Now the officer was staring at me as if he was
confronting a dangerous lunatic. ‘Are you aware that you are in
Canada?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘And are you aware that we use the metric system
here?’

It only took a few seconds for the penny to drop.
‘Oh. Are you saying that you measure speed in kilograms?’

‘Kilometers, miss. Kilometers. It may have said 100
on your speedo, but according to my machine you were doing 150
kilometers an hour. I’m amazed your car could even go that fast.
You were way, way over the speed limit. I’m afraid you picked the
wrong policeman to speed past. If there is one thing I hate more
than anything, it’s speeding drivers.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry. It was just a misunderstanding.
I’m American, you see. We don’t use kilograms.’

‘Kilometers.’

‘Or those. We use proper measurements. Miles and
gallons. You guys should try them, too. Our system makes more sense
than your weird one.’

‘Have you been drinking, ma’am?’

‘Absolutely not, officer. I never drink and
drive.’

That didn’t stop him from breathalyzing me. But when
the test came back negative, he relaxed a little bit.’

‘All right, you haven’t been drinking, so that works
in your favor. And seeing as you’re not a Canadian resident, it’s a
waste of time giving you a speeding ticket. Just remember to watch
your speed in future, OK?’

‘OK. So can I go?’

‘Not yet. We will have to separate the cars before
either of us goes anywhere. Hop over into the passenger seat, and
I’ll try and reverse this heap of crap off my cruiser.’

I slid across to the passenger seat, and the officer
got into the car. The courtesy light came on as he opened the door,
and I got a better look at him. He was in his late thirties, I
would guess, with a full head of hair that was a little silvery at
the edges. He was square jawed and heavy in the shoulders, as if he
had been purpose-built for the police force. The badge on his lapel
said ‘Officer Hartwell.’ He turned the key and started up the
Rocket. Then he engaged reverse, slipped the parking brake and
touched the accelerator. There was a brief groan as the two cars
disengaged, and then the Rocket rolled backwards.

Officer Hartwell touched the brakes lightly with an
optimism that I thought was quite endearing. Of course, nothing
happened. The Rocket continued rolling backwards along the
emergency lane. The policeman looked surprised and stabbed harder
at the brakes, but still not hard enough. The Rocket slowed a
touch, then continued its journey unaffected. It was like an
elephant brushing away the attentions of a flea.

‘You have to stand on the brake,’ I explained.
Honestly, I thought they would teach police officers how to drive.
‘And if you pull really hard on the parking brake, that helps as
well.’

Officer Hartwell hurriedly did as I instructed. He
didn’t have much choice. The Rocket was gliding out of the
emergency lane into the oncoming traffic, and a big Peterbilt truck
was closing down on us at high speed.

‘Fuck!’ he exclaimed. Are police officers supposed
to swear? He stamped solidly on the brake pedal and yanked the
parking brake into the vertical position. The Rocket stopped
obediently, and the Peterbilt missed us by inches, hurtling by with
its air horn blaring and making the whole car shake, rattle and
roll. Hartwell rammed the Rocket into Drive and pulled forward into
the emergency lane. This time he was more prepared, and managed to
stop the car before it hit his cruiser again.

He slumped over the steering wheel, panting
hard.

‘I just saw my whole life pass before my eyes,’ he
wheezed. ‘I thought we were going to die then, for sure. In all my
years on the police force, this is the most dangerous car I have
ever seen.’

‘You’re exaggerating, officer. You just need to
learn how to handle it, that’s all. Honestly, I haven’t had more
than three or four accidents in the last six months. Now if you’ve
had your fun, I really need to get going. I’m behind schedule.’

Officer Hartwell gave me that dealing-with-a-lunatic
look again, and snatched the keys from the ignition. ‘Ma’am, there
is no way you are going anywhere in this carriage from hell. I am
confiscating this vehicle until it is in roadworthy condition. You
will have to get it fixed up.’

Well, this situation was getting suckier by the
second. I had been sticking my chest out for the last few minutes,
encouraging him to take an interest in something that didn’t have
an engine, but he hadn’t given my boobs so much as a sideways
glance. So I figured that offering him a blowjob to let me on my
way wasn’t really an option.

Shame. It always works in America. I was going off
Canada fast. What’s a girl supposed to do if she can’t whore her
way out of trouble? I crossed my arms and gave the policeman a
haughty look.

‘And how much is that going to cost me?’

‘At least two hundred bucks to get you towed, and
the same again for labor to fix the brakes. Plus parts. Five
hundred all up, maybe more. It’s too late to get a mechanic
tonight, so you will need money for a motel room as well. How much
have you got?’

I grabbed my purse and counted up the contents.
‘I’ve got twenty three dollars and fifty cents.’

‘That’s all you’ve got in Canadian dollars?’

‘Oh no, I don’t have any of those. I’ve only got
real money. American dollars.’

Officer Hartwell seemed to be having trouble
breathing. ‘Do you have a credit card by any chance?’

‘Oh yes!’ I beamed. ‘I’ve got lots of those…a dozen
at least.’

I showed him the section of my purse that contained
my credit cards. It was an impressive display – Visa, Mastercard,
American Express, Diner’s card and a whole bunch of store
cards.

Officer Hartwell looked relieved for a moment, but
then his eyes narrowed a little. ‘And do any of them actually have
any credit available on them?’