It’s summer. I’m kicking up dust on this lonely stretch of road. Seems this time of year everything's dirty and everything stinks a little from sweat. Clothes stick like skin; mouths are dry and eyes squint from the glare of the burning sun. There’s no breeze in these unrelenting Northern Plains. The beauty is in the vistas, the gigantic sunsets and the cloudless blue of the open sky. But not on this road, this desolate road. The truck rocks along the ruble of dirt, past the iron gate that leads to the Gothic mansion Breckenhurst—an odd curiosity anywhere and especially here in the middle of nowhere. I round the bend and spot in the distance, maybe a half mile down the road, the figure of a woman, walking toward town. I say the ‘figure’ of a woman because she looks transparent, like a mirage, like something only half there that could easily disappear on a gust of wind.

The closer I get the more I see she’s real. A loose thin dress hangs limply on her body, floating against her skin as she moves, like a curtain ruffled by the breeze.
I stop the truck beside her and she doesn’t seem to notice.
"Hey there!" I call to her. "You need a ride?"
She finally looks my way, dazed, then surprised, as if she’s waking up. "Yes, sure …" But she doesn’t move.
"Come on," I wave her around as if she needs direction. A cattle prod might work easier.
She finally starts to move, prancing like some nimble sprite to the passenger door. She opens it with some effort and slides onto the seat, while lifting her skirt. I see her bare thigh as she does, and her dusty bare feet. Remarkable. Unless she’s wearing a thong — which I doubt — she’s not wearing panties.
The thought of her naked cunt pressed against the leatherette truck seat gives my body a welcome jolt. Her light hair is wispy brown, her face pleasant and open, and what I can see of her body, her breasts are small, though their nipples stick out prominently through the material of her dress, erect and alluring. I try not to stare.
"I’m Annabelle," I introduce myself.
She stares back at me, wistfully and disconnected. I feel like I need to lead her.
"What’s your name?"
"Sylvie."
"And what are you doing on the road like this, alone? You’re barefoot." I stare at her dirty feet in amazement.
"I’m sorry."
"No need to be sorry. But you’re awfully far from anything."
She turns around, craning to see through the truck’s back window, which isn’t easy.
"I was at Breckenhurst."
"Really?"
"And you’re what? Leaving there?"
"Yes," she nods, "yes, I’m leaving." All like I’m making this up for her.
"You sure I shouldn’t just take you back?"
"No, no. Um. There’s a town not too far. Right?"
"Yeah, that’s where I’m headed, about five miles due West."
She smiles and sits back. So, I guess that’s my cue to get on our way.
We collectively jiggle along the road’s rough surface. It’s hard to talk with the noise, but my curiosity is eating away at me.
"You mind my asking why you’re leaving?"
"Mind? No. But there’s little to say ‘cept it’s time for me to leave him."

"I see." She stares so aimlessly, her mind already having drifted from me to something else that seems to haunt her. I’m pretty good at sensing troubled people, probably because I’m one myself.
There are stories of Breckenhurst. Its current owner is simply known as Hurst, a cold, abrupt and crude man. He’s not handsome by anyone’s standards, but he stands tall, with a strong build and an imposing character that has a certain seductive allure. It must. It’s rumored he’s had as many as five women living with him at a time. They come and go. His caretaker, handyman, Jud Hoyt most often comes to town for groceries. Seems we only see Hurst when he needs his lawyer or he’s in a dispute about the matter of his property lines. The property is at least 300 hundred acres but it’s never been adequately surveyed to his satisfaction. I’ve had enough run-ins at the attorney’s office to know that he’s not an easy man to deal with. The girls never accompany either man to town, so no one really knows anything but the persistent rumors of kinky sexual activity. They are most likely just rumors, idle gossip, wishful thinking. But it’s good fuel for the imagination and the gossip mill — lord knows we don’t have much going on in these lonesome parts and we need something wicked to stir up the sexual juices.

The girl lends credence to those rumors. I figure I’ll be nice and help her out. No purse, no backpack. How does she expect to survive? It’s a mystery I expect to solve this afternoon.
I pull up to Kat’s Café, a diner tucked between the two largest buildings in town—the attorney’s office and the grocery story. It’s simple but the food is good, all cooked from scratch; Kat’s homemade recipes. Her fruit pies bring people in from all over the county and she makes a mean spaghetti and meatballs for this white-bread cowboy country.
"You hungry?" I ask the girl.
She doesn’t answer, but she follows me inside.
Inside, I order two burgers, fries and tall milk shakes, saving myself the effort of prying from her what she wants. She eats with relish while I take my time.
"Didn’t he ever feed you?" I can’t help but ask.
"Oh, yes, but…" she stops for another bite and doesn’t finish the sentence.
It feels as if she has the brakes on when it comes to sharing the secrets of Breckenhurst. This makes it a mystery I have to crack and firms up my resolve.

I finish my food while she waits nervously. She fidgets a bit and looks around as if she’s expecting Hurst to jump out and snatch her away. We’re in the back of the café and there’s just one other table at the front in use. Kat’s getting ready for the dinner crowd, making salad behind the counter. My back’s to the room, while Sylvie faces out; it’s pretty private and apparently intimate enough for her nervousness to become something altogether different. I see the shift in her eyes first, then her body follows fluidly. Her languid, molten eyes draw me into her so that I can’t stop staring.
"What— ?" I say almost breathlessly, finding myself caught up in her mood.
"You mind if I thank you?"
"Thank me?"
Her hand, resting on her lap beneath the table, reaches to my knee then to my thigh and rests there like a hot anvil, searing the bare flesh. My cunt quakes from the sudden turbulence, but I understand now what she’s asking. A flutter of excitement attacks my belly.
"You want to thank me here?"
She nods yes and bites her lip, while smiling in a soft playful way. Her eyes fire; her chest heaves a little. I’m feeling her desire like a slow, smooth tongue upon my skin.
"Sure," I say. By now, I can feel my arousal all the way to my toes.

She slides off the seat and goes down between my legs, where she lifts my skirt just enough to find my moistening snatch. I part my legs wide in response to her probing fingers, while counting on the high back of the booth to safely hide the truth about what she’s doing, at least for now. She parts my labia and her tongue moves in-between, darting about the swelling flesh and the hard bud that’s throbbing now. It seeks her attention as much as she’s seeking to serve its need. Her hands run along my thighs and flame my arousal. They connect me with her. Feeling the wildness suddenly take over, I pull her head in closer with my hands. It’s all I can do to contain my movements, and most of all, the mindless sounds of sexual desire that threaten to betray the moment to the unknowing diner.

Her mouth clutches my inner self as it gives the wanting furrow a zealous workout. Her tongue dips and licks and fast-flicks my clit. I want to throw my head back and cry out, but I refrain. Eric will kill me if he hears about this—kill because he’s not here to watch.
Oh, how her tongue slides into the wetness! Her face, her cheeks press against my skin; her hands drive me mad! I don’t even know this impertinent stranger and she has me in her clutches, my body battling against propriety, about to just burst out regardless of where we are.
She seems to drill me for a time, so expertly massaging the swollen sensitive flesh that I come against her face, moaning softly. Thank the Lord, someone’s got the Dixie Chicks playing on the jukebox, so the music drowns out my muffled cries.
I can’t believe what just happened! I finally sit up straight and adjust my skirt, while Sylvie slowly slides back up on the opposite seat.
She wipes her face with her napkin and stares into my eyes. "It was a good meal," she declares, in that withering, wispy way of hers. I don’t bother to ask which meal she’s referring to, although I’m guessing she means both.
She settles in her seat looking around distractedly while I try to regain my composure.
I take up where I left off, trying to figure out what the hell the girl is planning to do. "So, Sylvie, you’re leaving Breckenhurst; where are you going from here?"
She shakes her head and shrugs.
I stare at her quizzically. "You didn’t plan this, did you?"
She shakes her head again guiltily, trying to grin.
The reality of her strikes at me; it makes me angry. "You know, I should take you back there. You’ve got no clothes, no money, not even shoes, girl. How do you plan to live?"
"I’m sorry, I don’t know." She bows her head.
"Look at me!" Some odd maternal instinct seems to be taking over. "Being sorry is not an answer." I fume a bit impatiently then choose to add, "But you can spend the night with me and we’ll figure out what you’ll do tomorrow."
She smiles. Oh, how she’s played me; I can see now how she gets her way. I’ll bet she would have blown some guy at Grady’s and let him take her home to be his love slave, but what kind of life is that?

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