Road Trip by Miss Irene Clearmont

Book Details

Road Trip – A road trip across the backways of the USA. Dry, dusty and a chance to discover himself and find out how the people of these bare lands live. Graham has split with his girl and with just a rucksack on his back he headed into the dry plains and deserts of the centre.

Hiking, Graham is picked up by Bill and Florrie, a young couple who add another leg to the journey. But, when Graham takes up their offer of a roof for the night he awakes to find himself fettered to the bed that he slept on.

Thus the nightmare begins, because Florrie is a member of a biker gang and part of the way that they make money is to kidnap and sell on victims over the southern borders. As if that were not bad enough, Florrie needs Graham broken for resale and the woman that does the work is the enormous and evil Madison.

A brutal and dusty trip to nightmare, a trip to hell. But not to hell and back, because there is no coming back from this inferno because Graham sees something that is better unseen and can never be allowed to escape a servile fate.

Setting: USA

F/m, F/f, M/m, Severe BDSM, Backwoods Femdom, Corporal Punishment, Abduction, Violation, Tattoos.

Strength 7/10 – 20,000 Words

Written 2012 Re-edit 2022

Excerpt: Road Trip

Part 1 Happiness Is The Road

The road stretched into the distance. It lured the eye to that distant location on the horizon where the parallel lines of the shimmering tarmac met at a point. Empty of traffic and lined with bare fields of harvested corn, the distant mountains on the horizon were just slight undulations that disturbed an otherwise level skyline.

Graham sat on the dry grass and drank from his water bottle as he squinted in both directions. This was where he had been dropped by his last hitch, a local who had turned at the dusty intersection and headed south, off route thirty six. Far away to the east was New York, the place that he had begun his tour of the USA. That had been two months ago, sixty days of wandering here and there, wherever the urge or the lifts took him.

In general he had not been bothered where each lift had taken him because he was meandering without a plan, just a credit card and a day’s rations in his pack. Originally he had planned to hitchhike with Carol, his girlfriend of two years or so, but they had split up, partly over his craving for this road trip. So here he was in the middle of Kansas, contemplating the horizon and the distant mountains in the west that were his target. The shimmering heat of the summer sun on the blacktop melted the view with ripples of liquid heat as he sipped the water.

Screwing closed the lid of the bottle he carefully replaced it in his pack and pulled out the creased map that was his only guide and plan. His finger traced the straight road to Marysville where he hoped to be by nightfall, possibly the last stop before he reached Denver at the foot of those distant mountains that had lured him west.

With a sigh he stood and looked down the highway to the east. A slight movement caught his eye, a smear of red that crept towards him with deceptive slowness. Instinctively he combed his hair with his fingers and focussed on the approaching vehicle. Each hitch was different, each one a quantity that he had to adjust to with the mentality of a chameleon. A truck driver hungry to talk to relieve the boredom, a local farmer on his way to deliver his stock or buy provisions. Sometimes a family or single man on their way to some distant destination.

The red dot resolved to certainty, a red pickup driven at a slow pace that crawled towards him until he could see the woman driving and the man beside her. He felt a twinge of disappointment because both seats were filled, leaving no space for a casual passenger.

At a hundred yards he held out his arm and waited to see if there would be a response, but he had no real hope of a lift to Marysville from this couple. Far behind he could see another approaching car, another chance, a possible hitch. The pickup slowed, and pulled into the verge by him.

‘Where you planning going?’ said the man to him through the open window. ‘Marysville,’ answered Graham with a smile. ‘If you’re going that way.’ ‘Near Washington’s where we’re heading.’
‘That’s even better,’ said Graham.

‘You’d better get in then…’

The door of the pickup opened and the man got out. Despite the worn look of the pickup the man was dressed in brand new jeans and polished boots. Graham slung his pack into the back of the truck and climbed in next to the attractive female driver. ‘All right,’ said the man as he climbed into the cab and slammed the door closed with a clunk. ‘We have a farm up by Washington way.’

The pickup started with a clash of gears and pulled onto the road with a steady roar of the engine. ‘Washington would be great. I’m heading for Denver.’

The man laughed and stretched out his legs in the footwell. ‘Where you staying in Marysville?’ asked the woman without looking away from the road.

‘No idea, I’ll find a motel.’

‘You can stay the night with us if you like,’ said the woman with a grin. ‘Sure beats a motel anyways.’ This sudden generosity on the part of the young couple was like a breath of fresh air after the last lift that had left him in the middle of nowhere after promising to drop him in Marysville.

‘My name’s Graham,’ he said. ‘Graham Kleist.’

‘Well hi there, Graham,’ said the man. ‘I’m Bill and this is Florrie. Welcome aboard!’

Graham looked at Florrie and admired her tight jeans and tighter shirt that was stretched over large breasts and muscular arms. The hint of a tattoo reached from under the cuffs of the shirt. She wore sunglasses and her hair was pulled into two bunches. Strong features partly covered by the large dark circles of the sunglasses, striking rather than beautiful, purposeful rather than frivolous. The expensive watch that she wore seemed at odds with her casual cowboy clothes.

‘We own a small farm, mainly pigs and chickens, but there’s a few acres of corn as well.’ ‘Sounds like it keeps you busy,’ said Graham.

‘Sure does! Always working, that’s us!’ said Florrie as she allowed a green sports car to pass. ‘Non- stop work, but we love raising pigs!’

The conversation did what it always did. It revealed the lives of the participants in casual words. By the time that they were ten miles from Washington, Graham had told them about the breakup with Carol and his dreams of a road trip that would take him to San Francisco and they had told him a little about themselves. The farm had belonged to Bill’s parents, but after they died in an accident, he married Florrie and took it over.

A few miles short of the small town of Washington, Kansas, they turned to head south, off the highway down a narrow track that made the pickup rock and rattle in the ruts of the well-worn road. Finally they came to a gate and Bill jumped out of the pickup to open it. The track led another mile until the white house and farm buildings came into view.

‘That’s the homestead,’ said Florrie as they pulled up by the porch of the massive house. ‘Used to be called Stallion Farm, but we call it Hogland!’

She laughed at her little joke and grimaced as the smell of the pigs arrived with a breath of wind. ‘Sure spoils the effect of home cooking,’ she said.

A large motorbike stood under a lean-to by the house, a Harley soft-tail tricked out with leather saddlebags and leather fringes hanging from every part of the polished machine. ‘That’s a great bike,’ said Graham.

‘It’s more than a bike,’ said Florrie. ‘It’s a lifestyle, a part of the family.’ ‘Do you ride?’ asked Bill.
‘No, never done the licence,’ said Graham. ‘Thought about it though!’

‘Round here it’s a must. You know, for the society.’ Graham got his rucksack and followed the pair into the house. His impression was of slight dilapidation and disorder, mix and matched furniture and old fashioned fittings.

‘I have to thank you so much for this,’ said Graham as he followed them into the airy kitchen. ‘I mean putting me up like this.’

‘It’s nothing,’ said Florrie as she pulled out a couple of pans and squinted into the huge ancient fridge. ‘It’s sure good to have company.’

Bill pulled up a chair and sat at the table before licking off his boots. ‘Florrie’s right,’ he said. ‘It’s what’s missing here, good company.’

Excerpt from: Road Trip