Ice On A Bridge

                It wasn’t that I objected to the fact that his palm was at the juncture of my upper thigh and torso, wedged in tight, nor was it the fact that his pinkie was literally resting on the petals of my sex, lightly rubbing.  No, it was the fact that he was flicking and tugging on the vibrator clamp that was attached to my clit, vibrating gently as the egg shaped device rested against my slit.  My blue denim duster, which was all I was wearing besides a pair of nine inch tall, platform pumps known affectionately as my “please fuck me stupid shoes,” was currently pulled open, showing bare skin from my throat all the way down, with both breasts fully on display.  We’d already passed a few truckers who had flashed me a thumbs up sign, pleased with the explicit and clearly preferred view.  

 It had me on edge. Zach sat behind the wheel of his Chevy Blazer, his right hand uncomfortably high on my leg.

                “I thought we were going to the park,” I said, trying hard to ignore both the vibrations of the egg shaped vibrator and the tormenting movements of Zach’s hand.  I was aroused, almost painfully so, and Zach knew it.  He also knew that I was trying to hold for a damn good reason.  Exploding NOW, in the truck, was not a good idea considering what was coming.

                Or cumming.

                “It’s just ahead.  I have to exit Holcombe though, so you won’t see the bridge. Probably,” Zach explained.

                That did not make me feel any easier about the whole situation.  I had been pretty specific about where I wanted to go, and what I wanted him to do, and frankly I was just a little unnerved that he had changed things up without even a by your leave.  But then again, I was the submissive nympho humiliation pain slut in the car.  Who the hell was I to argue with him?  So while I didn’t know he planned on hijacking things, I really had no option but to go along with him.  After I had met him at the fraternity house where I had gotten changed - *ahem* well, stripped really, we had climbed into his Blazer and I was informed that he had found a better bridge. A more private bridge.

                “Trust me,” he had said.  “There is way less cross traffic on my bridge.”  I had shrugged.  More privacy, especially considering what I was going to be doing on said bridge, could only be a plus.  I looked down at the small, insulated cooler between my ankles, and not for the first time, wondered if I was crazy.

                “You know, I think you’re crazy,” Zach said conversationally. 

                I glared at him.  “Where the hell are we?” I demanded.  There were parked semi-trucks everywhere and I’m positive the area wasn’t zoned residential.  What bridge were we going to?  Why would there be a trail bridge out here?  Who the hell walks in a commercial warehouse district?

                “Dixie,” he said smartly.

                “As in whistling?” I retorted.

                He glanced over at me in surprise.  “Are you about to start your period or something?” He asked, pulling his hand out of my lap.  I scowled at him.  That isn’t the sort of thing you ask a lady.

                Or a slut.

                “Of course not. I’m just…” I paused, looking for the right word. “Disconcerted,” I said.  “This whole assignment stinks.”

                He twisted the wheel and we pulled into a small parking lot that was surrounded by a chain link fence and next to some sort of circular building.  Hell if I knew what it was.

                “I think it’s cool,” Zach said, emphasizing the last word.

                I flashed him another irritated look.  “Where the hell are we?” I demanded, and before he could answer, I also asked, “and do you think you’re funny?”

                “Me? Funny?  Of course.  And we are here,” he said brightly.  He patted my leg.  “Come on.”  Then he got out of the Blazer.  He came around to my side of the truck as I was buttoning up my duster, and then opened the door.  He grabbed the cooler from between my legs, flashing me a grin, then helped me stabilize as I climbed out.  Stupid shoes will do that to a girl, and it’s not like I’m on nine inch platform pumps all the time.  I grumped but didn’t protest. He was just being a gentleman.  I looked around. There was no sign of a bridge.

                “So where is this bridge?  Is it imaginary?” I asked caustically.  He grimaced and glared at me.  Maybe I was starting to get on his nerves.  He shot me an exasperated frown next and grabbed my elbow, pushing me toward the street. I started walking, slowly of course, but walking.

                “Bre,” he said as if explaining arithmetic to a four year old.  “If we had gone where you suggested, we’d have had to park over half a mile away from the bridge you wanted to do this on, in one of Houston’s most popular parks for jogging, at two in the afternoon.”  He took a deep breath, as if trying to suppress the urge to throw me over his lap and spank the snarkiness out of me.  “Trust me, this bridge is better.  We won’t have anyone trying to cross, jogging somewhere.”

                He turned me left and we began walking along the street.  Drivers, what few there were, eyed me speculatively and I didn’t blame them.  I was dressed in a long coat, with “fuck me high heels.”  They rightly wondered what was under the coat.  All of them wished they were Zach.  Ah, jealousy.  It’s so weird, isn’t it?

                Suddenly there was a concrete path, yellow lines dividing it down the center.  Zach turned on to it and I went with him, glancing around.

                “Was this a railway once?” I asked.

                Zach nodded. “Colombia Tap.  Rails to Trails converted it a few years ago.”  We continued down the trail and I kept expecting it to turn to the left, but then I saw it actually crossed over the freeway.  On the other side of the roadway there seemed to be some sort of campus, with a tennis court and soccer field.  Except it had unusually high fences which seemed odd to me.  Zach moved ahead eagerly, as if we had already reached our destination.  Tall chain link fence, topped with barbed wire, funneled us toward the roadway.

                Then it dawned on me.  “Wait a moment!” I exclaimed.  “This isn’t private!  There are like a zillion people who will be able to see me!”  Zach kept hold of my arm, pulling me forward as I tried to stumble to a stop.  Not wanting to knock me down, he halted and turned and looked at me, my eyes wide in fright.  Right in front of us, crossing the goddamned freeway, was a railway bridge.  It had been converted into a pedestrian crossing as part of the trail.

                “Look at the bridge, Bre!” he demanded, clearly frustrated with me.

                I swallowed my panic.  Okay. Look at the bridge.

Yes, this is the actual bridge.

This tale is no longer available on Michael Alexander's Blog, but can be found in its entirety in Breanne Erickson's latest novel, "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volume 9"!  Stop by Amazon.com today to pick up your copy!

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