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The Hitchhiker

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The Hitchhiker

Postby Cufflinks » Mon May 29, 2017 4:24 pm

The Hitchhiker

As night began to fall, I had managed to make my way from Motala in my newly acquired, vintage Volvo Amazon without any major issues, other than the radio cutting in and out. When it began to rain, I had reached Karlskoga. The downpour increased in intensity with every mile I drove on toward the north, and I decided to slow down when my windows were fogging up and the wipers couldn’t keep up anymore. Trying to remove condensation with my sleeve, I went past a hitchhiker; but I felt bad about someone trodding along on the lonely E45 in weather like this at night, so I decided to turn around and offer a ride.

The rain was an almost tropical sort of downpour, and I was completely drenched by the time I reached the rear hatch. The hitchhiker ran towards me, thanking me profusely, and I noticed she was female. We got her heavy trekking backpack off and stowed it in the boot.

“Thanks so much,” she said, “how far are you going today?”

“Hoping to make it to Östersund eventually, but how far we’ll get today may depend on the car,” I joked, to which she laughed and said she eventually wanted to make her way to Arvidsjaur. Her name was Laura, and she had just come back from a whole year of backpacking through Australia.

In the dim sheen reflected inward from the headlights, I could see as we drove on that she was very pretty, with wild, curly blonde hair and a cute nose.

“What’s with your radio?” she asked after a while, “it sounds like it’s cutting in and out.” I had to concede I had no idea what was wrong with it, and that I had only picked up the car today. She rummaged through her pockets and produced a small torch. “Let me take a look at that, I’ve spent a month in one of these going from Perth to Darwin, and I know all the cables by now.” That said, she put the torch between her teeth and dove into the footwell. Before long, she had managed to stabilize the radio reception, and sat back in her seat.

“It rains just like in northern Australia,” she said, looking out, “and it’s almost as lonely.”

“And they have the same type of old Volvo in Australia, too,” I volunteered, smirking. “Maybe everything here is like in Australia?”

“Well,” she said,”the men are different though. Usually...”

“Really?” I asked keenly, “what if they are also the same? Look, I’m blond, I can speak English, I like beer... I could be Australian!”

“But you’re not,” she said primly and folded her arms in front of her.

“What makes you so sure?” I kept nagging. I was beginning to enjoy this. And she was one immensely cute passenger, I thought to myself. For a while, she was silent. Then, in the dark of the car, she asked if I wanted to undergo her Aussie male test. I agreed, and she made me promise not to be startled. Next, I felt her hand creep up my right leg. “Are you simulating a huntsman spider making its way up my jeans?” I asked, amused and surprised. I had anticipated some joke question, not groping.

“No,” she said, that’s me trying to find the position of your... thing. There it is. In your right trouser leg, as is the case with most Aussie men. Hmm, there’s another point for you then. But let’s see if you can pass the ultimate test...” With that, she homed in on the tip of my penis in my trousers, and began to massage it between her thumb and her index finger. I nearly hit the roof. “Yes,” she said softly, with a diabolical smile, this one requires a stiffy for competent evaluation...” and she began to run her fingernails backwards and forwards along the entire length of my penis, on the denim fabric. “I think there is a very discernible circ hump here,” she said, now rubbing her index finger back and forth swiftly, exactly over the corona.

I stopped the car, and she nearly ripped my trousers off me. She was clearly very excited now.

“Right,” she said, “this needs to be looked at in detail to come to a full evaluation. We have here a fully exposed glans, dry, with no signs of possible coverage... good; but then, mobile skin, and it all fits snugly right up to the back of the glans. Very pretty, but I’m afraid, not Australian. This is a European job. Alas, a very pretty one... and we tend to give pretty things a kiss, don’t we?”

This she did, among other things, and we found a good use for her sleeping bag soon, too.

Which goes to show you don’t need to be Australian to have all the privileges, but it helps.
Some people’s opinion one simply cannot change. Mine, for example.
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