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Aletta Ocean


I was thirsty but there was no beer in the crappy one-bedroom apartment I was living in. Checking my wallet showed me I had twelve dollars left; just enough for two twelve packs of Dixie, the only beer I’ll drink.

Normally, I would have reminded myself that there was also no food in my apartment But since I wouldn’t be picking up Rose and Iris, my two five year old girls for another week, if at all, food just wasn’t all that important at that moment.

Their mother and I were going through a divorce. It should have been a big warning to me, a beautiful Vietnamese-American woman, in her mid-thirties, never married, no children. But I saw that long black hair, those almond eyes, and round, innocent face and got stupid.

After our marriage I was working as a welder in a fabrication plant; the Army had taught me the skill. My wages were good and Linda’s salary as a legal secretary for some Baton Rouge lawyer was also good. Rose and Iris came eleven months after our wedding, little miniatures of their mother and I really thought I was the luckiest man in the world.

Five and a half years into our marriage, Linda needed something signed ASAP and stopped by the factory. Belinda, my supervisor came and got me, and I followed the short, stocky woman to the front. Linda had me sign the papers and after a kiss, I went back to work.

But Linda didn’t leave. She and Belinda chatted, each leaning across the counter, just talking. Finally, Linda remembered she had those papers and hurried to leave.

“It was like, pow! This big old light bulb went off in my brain,” Linda told me as I was packing my clothes.

My wife actually expected me to be happy for her; after years, she finally figured out that she’s gay. Well, excuse me for breathing. Would have been nice if she could have figured that shit out before we got married and had the girls.

She needed our Chevy Nova for herself and she needed the house for herself and the girls and Belinda. Louisiana’s this ‘No-Fault’ state, which is Latin for ‘the man gets fucked and the lesbian bitch gets it all’ or something like that.

Right after she met Linda, Belinda found some reason or another to fire me and everywhere I apply, I’m being turned down. No one will tell me why, but it’s not hard to figure out that Belinda is not giving me a good referral.

I found a cheap ass apartment and a 1975 Ford Maverick sedan. The bedroom is for the girls and I sleep on the couch in the tiny living room and dining room. But six months without a job and my dumb-ass lawyer and all the bills for this and that have emptied my bank account

Like I said, I was thirsty. So, I stepped out of my apartment, checking the door to see if the manager has taped the eviction notice to the door yet. That crap music, nothing but thudding bass and guys yelling about police brutality and needing holler at their boys was blaring.

Marco, a very well-dressed guy that did not live in our complex but was always around our complex was dancing with two of the girls that lived three or four apartments down from mine. Both girls were smiling and laughing and giggling as they bounced to the sonic assault. From the way they were dancing with Marco, I was sure both of these young women would soon be sporting this dope dealer’s baby bellies.

The music was booming from Marco’s hummer and he had the windows down, allowing the booming clanging screeching noise to bleed out. As I walked past, I saw the alligator case on the passenger seat.

Don’t ask me what possessed me to do it. I knew Marco had a nine-millimeter gun in his jacket; I’d seen him pull it out and shove it into the mouth of the strung-out kid that lived next door to me. But, as I walked past, I grabbed the case.

Getting into my rusted-out Maverick, I quickly dropped the briefcase behind my seat. Then I fervently prayed to God as I tried to start my piece of shit car. Sweat was beginning to trickle as the car coughed, sputtered, groaned and finally caught.

“What the fuck am I doing?” I asked as I drove out of the parking lot.

If the case held cocaine, or crack, or even marijuana, I had no idea where to sell it. I’d done some drugs in the military; who hadn’t? But it had been years.

Sure as I’m sitting here, first person I approach would turn out to be a cop. Or, worse yet, a desperate junkie that would kill me for the drugs.

I certainly couldn’t go to Marco, hand him the case and say I was sorry. He’d make damned sure I was sorry.

The car began to make an odd screeching whirring sound, so I pulled over. Just as I came to a stop, the car died. Twisting the key, pumping the gas, nothing worked. It was dead.

I pulled the briefcase to the front and twisted the tabs. Marco had not locked it and the two clasps popped open. I was looking at stacks of hundred-dollar bills, neatly stacked with straps around the several bundles.

Looking around, I was in a fairly run-down neighborhood. It certainly was not a neighborhood to walk through with a briefcase isvecbahis full of money. Then my eye saw the Greyhound bus station sign.

I slipped a few hundred-dollar bills into my wallet, got out and locked my car. I looked around, and then hustled to the bus station.

The briefcase went into a locker and I pocketed the key. I then went to a bar and bought a few rounds of drinks for the five or six guys sitting there in the dark room.

I was staggering drunk when I returned to my apartment. Marco stopped me as I tried to put my key into my door, one eye closed as I tried to figure out which one of the locks was the right one; they kept moving.

“Hey, old man, you seen a briefcase around here?” he demanded.

I was thirty-seven years old, hardly an old man. But to a punk ass kid barely out of diapers, I guess I was an old man.

I told him I had not, asked him what it looked like, whistled when he said it was an alligator case, black. Well, I tried to whistle; I mainly just sprayed a lot of spit.

“Alligator? Man, they, those, man, those are the big bucks!” I complimented the dope dealer on his taste.

“Uh huh, you find it, it’s mine, hear?” Marco said, already walking away.

“Man! Alligator! I’d, man, I’d, I’d love have one them,” I said as I somehow managed to get the key into the door.

The next day, Marco had enlisted a friend of his to help him look for the case. His friend was very large and very mean. I was questioned again, Marco’s friend holding me against my door. Again, I denied any knowledge of Marco’s case.

I could see the writing on the wall. Marco and his friend would not stop looking. The flimsy door of my apartment would not stop them if they decided to come in and search my place. And, if my girls were here, they’d only threaten, possibly hurt my girls.

My eyes teared up as I thought of Rose and Iris. The last time they were here, Rose had asked me why I was being mean to their mommy.

I was not being mean to their mommy. I wasn’t even putting up a fight over the house, the Nova, her having her lesbian lover in our house.

It was clear to me; Linda, or Belinda was pumping their little heads full of lies. So that when it came time to talk custody, visitation, once again, the legal system would be stacked against me.

So, I did the only thing I could. And I ran. I ran so far away.

(Sorry, couldn’t resist. Curse you, MTV and A Flock of Seagulls.)

While Marco and his goon were next door, slapping the little junkie around, I packed the few things I couldn’t live without and left. I walked quickly, circling the block in the opposite direction, coming up behind the Greyhound bus station.

Entering the bus station’s terminal, I saw Martha Hebert inside the building. Martha was a young woman that lived upstairs from me, in one of the two-bedroom units with her mother, two sisters and older brother.

Martha was somewhat cute, even if she still sported quite a bit of baby fat on her face and frame. I knew Martha was nineteen because I’d heard Martha’s mother screaming at her that she was nineteen, time she got off her lazy ass and got a job.

Her light brown hair just reached her pale round shoulders. Her flabby arms were bare in the skimpy spaghetti strap top she was wearing, and her plump thighs were bare in the short skirt. Her belly peeked out of the bottom of her top, pale and round.

The outfit looked cute on her, but Martha did not look cute. She looked terrified as a young man had a firm grip on her left arm. He was growling something to her, and she was shaking her head in protest.

“Hi Martha; everything okay?” I asked pleasantly.

“Uh, hey, uh, old man,” the young man snarled. “Uh, this ain’t none your business, so uh, why you don’t just go on, huh?”

Jesus. Another punk ass kid calling me old. I ignored him as Martha’s big brown eyes begged me to help her.

I asked again if she was all right and the young man moved to shove me. I am grateful that the Army taught me basic self-defense classes; I grabbed his hand and swiveled it away from his body. With a gasp, he let go of Martha’s arm and she scampered on her high heels to stand behind me.

I then shoved the kid back and he stumbled and fell. Grabbing Martha’s hand, I pulled her toward the ticket counter.

From the wall to the counter, Martha told me her story. She’d had enough of living with a drunk mother that thought nothing of screaming at her and slapping her for the smallest of infractions and an older brother that delighted in pawing at her. So, she figured she’d come here, give a few blow jobs for a few bucks and get a bus ticket to anywhere but here.

The first man she’d approached had turned her down. The second man she’d approached had grabbed her arm and told her she was going to work for him; he’d manage her money for her. That’s when I walked in.

“So, how much you charge spend whole day with me?” I asked Martha, only half joking.

“Hundred bucks?” she asked.

“Yes?” isveçbahis giriş the speaker next to the ticket counter crackled.

“Two for Dallas, Texas,” I told the bored woman behind the thick pane of glass.

Why Dallas? I have no idea. It just popped into my head.

After paying for our two tickets, I pulled another crisp C-note from my battered wallet and held the bill out. The wallet was pretty beat-up, but I couldn’t get rid of it. It had been a Father’s Day gift from Rose and Iris when they were just three months old.

Martha was surprised to see the bill, but quickly grabbed it. Her cheeks did get pretty red, but she stuffed the bill into her cheap vinyl purse.

Sitting down, I saw the would be pimp on one of the pay phones. He hung up and took a seat across from us. A moment later, he checked his pager and gave me an intimidating smile. We had forty minutes before our bus would be there and I was sure this kid had just called for back-up.

“Watch my bag,” I asked Martha.

When I walked into the bathroom, I was sure the pimp wouldn’t wait for his reinforcements. I was banking on his arrogance and inexperience to guide him.

Sure enough, he hurried in a moment later. He didn’t even bother to carefully survey the area, just hustled into the large room.

I stepped up behind him and slammed him into the wall. The hand drier burst into life as his chest made contact with the button.

He gasped out as I jerked his left arm down, popping his arm out of the shoulder socket. His right arm gave just as easily and he stood, trying to suck in air to scream out.

Another face first slam into the wall knocked him out, and I let him go to the floor. Then I jumped on his ankles, grimacing as I heard them crunch. Even though I was doing this to protect myself and my new girlfriend, breaking bones is still an ugly sound.

His wrists made a slightly less audible sound as I broke them, but I still had to swallow the bile in my throat. I picked him up by his armpits, dragged him into a stall and plopped him onto the filthy toilet.

I jerked his trousers down, bunching them around his ankles. With his broken wrists, he would have a hard time pulling his pants up.

After leaving him, slumped against the stall’s grimy wall, I nodded to a man that was entering the facilities. After I relieved my bladder in the urinal, I washed my hands and left the bathroom.

Martha smiled at me as I came out and I smiled at her. When she smiled, her left cheek had a dimple and she was cute as a button.

We sat and talked, passing the time. Even as I tried to listen, I kept one eye on the clock, the other on the bathroom door. A bus came in from the Gonzales terminal, our bus to Dallas. But they had to let everyone depart, get their luggage sorted, then load up more luggage before they would let us on.

Ten minutes before our bus was to leave, two young men entered the building. They looked around, walking around, then splitting up and walking around.

I kept my eye on them as I approached my locker. Eight minutes to go before our bus was scheduled to depart, the first announcement went out. I opened my locker and grabbed the alligator case. One of the young men entered the bathroom just as I slammed the locker shut.

“Martha!” I called out and nodded toward the door.

God bless her; Martha had the foresight to grab my duffel bag as she tottered toward the door on those ridiculous high heels. We stepped out into the dank air and waited in line.

“Yes sir, yes sir, yes sir,” the bus driver said, giving Martha an appreciative eye.

“Uh huh,” I agreed, trying not to jump out of my skin.

We found a seat together and I sighed in relief when the bus slid its door shut. I saw one of the young men running outside, trying to flag the driver, but he ignored him and pulled away.

Martha’s short skirt had been mid-thigh when she was standing. Seated in the hard-plastic seats of the terminal, the skirt had risen up to just below her crotch. She kept trying to keep it in place with her hand, almost distracting me from my vigil of clock and bathroom door.

I’d given Martha fifty cents for a soda from the vending machine. When she’d bent to retrieve the orange soda, the back of her skirt had almost exposed her chubby buttocks. With a small squeal, she’d straightened and pulled her skirt down, spoiling my view.

Now, in the soft velour seats of the large bus, the skirt rose up and I looked from the outraged face of the pursuing youth to my companion’s legs. Her furry little pussy was visible as she shifted to look out the window.

I’m not a bad man. I have two daughters, two adorable little girls that I would lay down my life for. I would be outraged if anyone ever tried to take advantage of either one of my daughters.

I’m not a bad man. Martha did tell me her older brother was constantly touching her, grabbing at her boobs, her butt. She did tell me she did not like when her brother grabbed her.

I’m not a bad man. isveçbahis yeni giriş But Martha is not my daughter. She is not my sister. She’s a nineteen-year-old woman. She was in that bus station, selling herself for money. I had paid this young woman one hundred dollars, bought her a bus ticket out of Louisiana, and bought her a soda.

I put my hand on Martha’s upper thigh. She gasped and looked up at me, face twisted in surprise. Her big brown eyes looked at me as I felt her soft, warm skin with my calloused hand.

She gave a nervous glance around the bus, but we were fairly isolated where we were. Then, apparently, she resigned herself to my touches. Martha pulled the hem of her skirt down but did not move my hand.

“Good girl,” I said and kissed her lips.

Martha was a cute girl. Part of her cuteness was due to her chubby cheeks, part was due to her large brown eyes, her dimpled smile. And part of her cuteness was her plump lips. Her orange soda flavored lips were soft and wet against my lips.

As we kissed, Martha snaked her fat little tongue into my mouth and again, I marveled at how soft and warm she felt. I could taste her soda as we kissed.

When I brought my finger to her plump pussy, her inner lips were beginning to protrude. They were puffy and slick with moisture.

It took almost no time and she was humping my hand. Her soft kisses turned animalistic as I fingered her tight little pussy. Then, with a jerk a groan, she climaxed against my hand.

The bus driver announced that we were approaching the Baton Rouge terminal, and all would have to get off of the buss. I looked at the cheap watch my ex-wife had given me for my birthday and deduced we’d have nearly an hour before our connecting bus would leave for Dallas.

The food at a Greyhound bus terminal is not gourmet. But I did not want to leave the terminal, get bogged down at a slow restaurant or get lost trying to find the terminal again. So, we bought sandwiches and juice from the attached dining area. Again, I gave Martha some coins for the various vending machines.

With a smile I reminded her to watch how she bent over, and she blushed prettily but did giggle. One machine sold her a small package of chocolate chip cookies, which she put into her purse. Another machine sold her another orange soda, which also went into her purse. The last machine she hit served her a Nutty Buddy ice cream cone and Martha actually skipped on her high heels as she returned to our small table.

She leaned against me and ate her cone. She held out the cone and offered me a bite. I declined but did kiss her for her thoughtfulness.

Houston’s bus terminal was the same as the Baton Rouge terminal. We were forced to leave the bus and a check of the tickets told me we had nearly two hours before our bus to Dallas would depart. But it was nearly eleven thirty at night, and the view from the large glass doors of the terminal did not show much in the way of places to eat. So, once again, we ate what the terminal offered.

“I promise you; we get to Dallas, I’ll take you out for a steak dinner,” I promised Martha.

“This is good enough,” Martha assured me and gave me an orange soda flavored kiss.

Seven and a half hours later, I roused Martha and we staggered off the bus into a muggy Dallas morning. Greyhound apparently needed to stop in any and every place that has a light pole. We must have stopped at no less than fourteen towns and suburbs between Houston and Dallas.

A glance around showed me a motel a few blocks away. Wearily, I pulled a very sluggish, very cranky Martha toward the motel.

The clerk, some grizzled old woman assured me that she ran a fine Christian business. I shrugged; at that point, I didn’t care if she sacrificed chickens in the name of Chevrolet, god of the Camaro.

She then explained that she would not rent us one room; we were not married. Martha started to object but I told the woman I respected her faith and her values. I rented two rooms, paying with cash.

“What you did that for?” Martha demanded when we stepped outside to make our way to rooms 210 and 212.

“Because I am exhausted and I don’t feel like arguing with her over this,” I said. “We’re not using both of them rooms.”

Inside room 210, I kissed Martha, pulling her tight up against me. Then I pushed her onto the double bed.

When Martha fell, her skirt flipped up, showing off her cute little pussy. She moved to pull her skirt down, but I stopped her with my hand.

My fingers got Martha wet quickly enough. She made all kind of noise when I knelt down and put my mouth on her little honeypot. Her chubby thighs clamped tightly around my head and she got my face mighty wet with her juices.

Martha’s lips were nice and plump, like the rest of Martha. Her clitoris was easy to find; it protruded from the hood, a fat little nub of pleasure. She had a good, musky aroma and a good musky taste as I licked and sucked and fingered her to orgasm.

When she released me, I stood up and unzipped my pants. Martha then remembered that I’d paid her and remembered what I had paid her to do.

She sat up and pulled my hard dick out. Her small hand stroked me for a minute, big brown eyes looking up at me.

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