Hot Pursuit
By WL Sweetland
Published by Langley’s Lovelies
Copyright 2013 © Langley’s Lovelies
The sound of the Camaro's engine was a powerful growl in the night. Susan loved to drive fast in the dark and when the road ahead opened up long and straight, she pushed her foot down on the gas pedal and the Porsche responded smoothly and instantly, sweeping her along with the precision of a finely tuned machine. Warm air whipped long blonde hair into a mess of unruly curls around her face and Susan breathed in the dry, sweet odours of the moonlit desert landscape. She felt good, speed had always excited her.
The Camaro's headlights pierced the darkness, illuminating the white stripes that flashed by beneath the sleek, metallic-black automobile. Susan cranked up the radio's volume when she heard Tom Petty singing American Girl. One of her all time favorite songs, it reminded her of college and she sang along to the chorus at the top of her voice. Susan shot a glance at the speedometer and registered the needle approaching 75mph. Singing and smiling, she pushed the pedal further down until the car seemed to fly across the two-lane tarmac.
It was 2am and Susan had not seen another car for at least an hour. She knew from the map that the road stretched almost fifty miles between towns with no discernible landmarks in-between, and for the most part was flat and straight. Susan trusted the Camaro. The way it handled, responding precisely to even the slightest touch of the steering wheel, big fat tyres gripping the road like jealous magnets, and the roar of the engine when she hit the gas, like a wild animal reincarnated as a piece of technologically perfect machinery. It turned her on. After long, midnight drives at high speed, Susan often returned home to find herself wet and with a desperate urge to masturbate.
The car swept her along, the wind in her hair, moon and stars above, Tom Petty became The Eagles and of course, Susan knew all the words to Hotel California. A derelict building suddenly appeared in her headlights. An abandoned gas station with faded paint, a rusty tin roof and sand piled high by the wind against it's rotten, wooden walls. She passed it in an instant, sending a flock of surprised, angry crows flying up into the night sky. No, Susan thought. Not a flock. A murder. She laughed out loud, pleased with herself for remembering the collective noun. She stretched one arm out straight above her, fighting hard against the breakneck wind that howled over the top of the windshield, and popped her middle finger at the birds.
''No pooping on the Porsche, assholes!'' Susan felt exhilarated, the speed, the wind, the smell of the desert, the music, she became aware her nipples were straining hard at the flimsy cotton of her blouse and there was a warm, tingling sensation in her crotch. All she needed now was some good, stiff cock. And, she thought with a devious smile on her lips, that part had already been arranged.
Susan eased her foot off the gas pedal and the Camaro's engine seemed to moan and whine in disappointed protest. She pulled over and stopped the car half on, half off the road. She switched off the engine and for a moment she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, enjoying the sudden silence. Then she reached over to the passenger side and took a map and a flashlight from the glove compartment. The car was too old to have a GPS navigation system and even if it had, Susan would never have used it. Her father had been a soldier, he had taught her to read maps when she was 9 years old.
She held the light above the map and quickly found her location. A large red X marked a point in the road about five miles ahead. Anticipation rose inside her, making her feel uncomfortable and restless. She slipped a hand up her short skirt and pushed a finger against the crotch of her panties. Hot and damp. The Camaro's engine ticked and tapped as it slowly began to cool and all around, the desert lay open
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