Jen: Route 66 Kicks-Springfield

CHAPTER Three ©

Springfield (IL)

[This is a work of fiction. The story is an unadulterated and unabashed attempt to tickle male fantasies and perhaps some female fantasies as well. It is a fantasy and as such, the story may or may not conform entirely with reality. With historical exceptions, all other locations, events, and characters are entirely fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.]

HISTORICAL NOTE:

[This is the third of the kicks on 66 series with Jen, Since the stories carry the background information and theme through from Chicago to L.A., they are best read in chronological order although that's not an absolute requirement. Also, there are ghost stories all along the road from Chicago to L.A. I didn't know that until I did further research after I wrote the Elkhart incident. The real Elkhart ghost story is different from the one I tell here. The other ghost incidents in my series are real (in the folklore of the road) or based on real tellings. Since Jen is fictional, her relationship to any of these real or imagined ghost stories is also fictional.]

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I soon had Miss Swifty up to speed back on the four lane, Illinois Route 66. I didn't even get my wake up cup of coffee! But I knew about a place a half hour down the road where I wanted to get something to eat. But first, after restudying my pre-trip planning notes, I just had to stop at a little place just a few miles out of Bloomington. That place was Funk's Grove.

Funk's Grove has a fascinating history, dating back to its founding in 1824 as a farm amidst a natural maple grove by a pioneer farmer named Isaac Funk. It just might be the oldest family business along the old mainstreet of America.

Maple sirup is spelled according to Webster's original spelling of the word and is the preference of the Funk family since the early 1920's. Its production was strictly for personal family use until Funks went commercial in 1891 and sold the sirup for one dollar per gallon.

There is both the Funk's Grove sirup farm and a tiny community of Funk's Grove. The two form a quiet, pleasant place amidst a hectic world. In the stillness of the grove it's hard to believe that a modern highway with its frenzied traffic is just a few miles away.

But the Funks held enough historic and economic sway that they would, in the early seventies, get the new interstate that would replace Route 66, rerouted around the grove instead of its originally planned route directly through the grove. I had a very pleasant sojourn there in the woods, the village, and the sugarhouse. Yes, I did buy a gallon of sirup, though I don't know what I'll do with it.

I'd managed to get a cup of coffee in the village, but had missed breakfast. I was starved. So, it was back to the pavement and on down to the place where I'd now get me a late brunch.

That place was McLean, one-hundred-forty-four miles past Go. There, I found the Dixie Trucker's Home truck stop, founded in 1928 by one of the first men in Illinois who began catering, in a big way, to the fuel and food needs of truckers and of the four wheel driver/travelers who had similar needs.

That man was J. P. Walters and his son-in-law, John Geske, who together, introduced round-the-clock service to accommodate their customer's irregular hours. But they started small. They rented a quarter of a mechanic's garage to sell sandwiches to truckers and passing mortorists. They had a counter and six stools.

During the thirties, they expanded to become a full fledged restaurant. Expansion and modernization became the name of the game. Since then, four generations of the Geske family have been involved in running the Dixie.

I walked in and over to a booth, drawing many male and a few female stares in the process. I was leading with my prominent chest and trailing a fair amount of bare butt cheek.

The plain, young waitress had a look of disdain on her face as she took my order, her nose almost out of joint. I quietly said to her, "Honey, if you got it, flaunt it. And, sweetie, I both got and do!" She took my order and huffed off to the kitchen window.

My order came quickly--three egg-Denver omelet, hash browns, wheat toast without butter, orange juice, and coffee, lots of coffee. I ate with a hungry gusto, watched by a couple of horny truck drivers. One of them was young and kinda cute.

I slowly sashayed my way to the cash register. My bill settled, I swished my ass back to the hall that led to the restroom area. I went inside and did my thing. On my way out, I paused before the mirrors and checked myself over as I washed my hands.

When I stepped out, the "cute" truck driver was waiting for me.

"Hi, my name's Jim. Would you care to join me in looking over the Route 66 museum they got here? It's just off that hall to the left here."

"My name's Jen. Yes, I'd like to see the museum. I'm running that road all the way to L.A."

"Great," he said as he offered me his arm.

He led me around the long hall of exhibits, carefully explaining details about many of them. It was the Dixie Trucker's version of the many Route 66 museums to be found in every state along the fabled route. Sometimes every other little hamlet along the way seems to have one. Although a nice one, I did not think it anything to overly brag about. "Now that you've seen this one, could I interest you in some more Route 66 memorabilia that I've got stashed in my truck?"

"Are you trying to seduce me, Jim?"

"Weeell, yes, damn it, I am."

"Ok, I guess I'll go for it."

He offered me his arm once again and led me back outside. He walked me back to the truck parking area and a small group of trucks off to the back of the lot. He led me up to a bright yellow Peterbuilt Tow and recovery truck. It looked like it stretched out for a city block, it was so long. I also noticed the slogan on the huge bug shield that stretched across the hood on top of the radiator. It read: "The Happy Hooker."

Jim saw where I was looking. "Yeah, I know some real hookers here and there and thought the name sounded neat."

He unlocked and opened the door. I awkwardly climbed up to the cab with a lot of assistance on my ass from Jim. His hands were on and partly under my short shorts as he held onto me and helped push me up. He certainly copped a feel or two.

"Step between the seats and into the sleeper. I'll follow you."

The so called "sleeper" was a lot more than just a sleeper. It was a double wide and held a large, over and under bunk bed set up against the back wall. It also had a easy chair recliner and a small fridge. It was primitive by today's standards, but fairly luxurious for its day.

Jim let me look for just a moment before he was all over me. With drool from his mouth and lust in his eyes, he made quick work of stripping me out of the few clothes I wore. He shed his clothes almost as quickly.

I could see, when his cock broke free, that he wasn't as well hung as I'd hoped he'd be. Pretty damned average set of cock and balls. Maybe he knew how to use it really well. Turns out, he didn't.

That one quick look at his bobbing and pulsing rigid pole was all I got. As I reached out my hand to grab hold of it, he roughly pushed me back onto the lower bunk on my back. I was lucky not to bang my head on the bottom of the top bunk.

Jim quickly pinned my arms above my head and used his knees to roughly shove my legs far apart. He advanced his cock into position and I felt its helmeted head part my folds and pop into my pussy canal. It was a damned good thing I was already soaked with my own nectar in anticipation of things.

He paused only a moment before plunging his cock all the way in to his balls in one hard thrust. If it hadn't been for my own copious lubrication, I'd of been hurt pretty bad. What a rough, crude son of a bitch. I'd lost control from the start and that wasn't like me. Boy, could I pick em or couldn't I?

There was no thought for me or my pleasure. He just pounded away at my pussy, bruising my pubic bone and who knows what else he was so rough. He released my arms and grabbed on to both my boobs and really squeezed hard. So hard it really hurt like hell.

There go some more bad bruises, was my flitting thought.

Very quickly, hardly two minutes later, Jim gave a sharp grunt, arched his back, thrust the hardest and deepest yet, and unloaded his wad. I was nowhere close to cumming. I hurt too damned bad anyway, the bastard.

No sooner had he dumped his load than the Son of a bitch withdrew his cock, wiped it on my belly and, then said, "Lick it clean, bitch."

"Well, you 'Wham Bam, Thank You Ma'am' fucking bastard, clean up your own stinking cock, you mother fucker."

"Fine, but you've had your fun, bitch. Get dressed and get out of my truck before I kick you out bare ass naked and I keep your clothes with me."

"You asshole son of a bitch."

"So you've said. I've got a schedule to keep. Get the hell out and be quick about it."

I'd little choice in the matter. Quickly donning my top, shorts, and sandals, I nearly fell out of the truck as I tried to climb down with my crotch burning from the punishment he just gave it. That's not even mentioning my boobs that hurt like hell as well.

Not all truckers are like this one. Back when I was living at home yet after high school and needed some release in a one night stand, I'd met some really nice drivers at one or another of the Peoria area truck stops and had a really fucking good time, literally. But this guy was one for the books.

I stumbled my way back into the truckstop rest room and did a patch up job of cleaning myself up until I could get to a shower somewhere. I needed a long soak in some hot water. It'd be a while before I'd be able to manage that.

I walked back out to Miss Swifty and fired her up. I was so mad and upset that I took my anger out on her. I burned rubber all the way on the long asphalt frontage road to the feeder ramp that would put me back on Route 66. That was unlike me and I apologized to Miss Swifty after I settled down on the open road in the direction of Springfield.

Twelve miles past McLean, I drove around Lincoln on the bypass. There are many historical sites in Lincoln, one-hundred fifty-six miles past Go, but I did not want to stop. With my hurts and memory of the last two hours, I was not in any frame of mind to go sight seeing.

Besides, to stop at every single town on the route, I never would get to California. But I did have time to reflect about the town on the long bypass ride.

Lincoln was originally called Postville until Abe Lincoln rechristened it, supposedly with watermelon juice, in 1853 before he was a nationally known figure. There are twelve specific sites related to Abe Lincoln activity in the town that, in the 1960 census, had a population of 16,890. Anyway, I was going to get my fill of Lincoln sites at my next major stop--Springfield.

Another seven miles and I drove through Broadwell, site of the Pig Hip restaurant. This is another near charter member of the Route 66 Mother Road, founded by Ernie Edwards in 1937. The restaurant would remain in business for fifty-four years, until 1991.

The place got its name after a local and hungry farmer entered the year old Harbor Inn, spotted a steaming pork roast, and blurted out that he wanted a sandwich "off that pig hip." The rest, as they say, is history. The Pig Hip was famous for its burgers and other sandwiches.

At one-hundred-sixty-seven miles past Go, I came to Elkhart, population some 400 plus souls and Known far and wide for nearby Elkhart Hill and a large grain elevator/storage complex by the tracks in town. This hill rises starkly out of the flat, Illinois prairie like a huge, low mountain meatloaf.

"The Hill" is actually a ridge formed by the glacier that once covered the area. "The Hill" is two miles long, a half mile wide, and rises to between one-hundred-seventy to two-hundred feet in height. Sited on and around the top is the home and burial site of former three term Illinois governor, Richard J. Oglesby (1829-1899), a cemetery, and a few other home sites.

The Oglesby home, Oglehurst, was built in 1891, and is a thirty room, victorian mansion. The Mausoleum in the cemetery contains remains of the former governor and other family members. It's a gloomy, rather spooky looking place.

There were no other visitors on the hill that day, or so I thought, anyway. There were no historical or visitors information signs back along the four lane in town, so I don't think the hill gets too many visitors. But the place does have a kind of "magical" quality about it.

The house was locked and shuttered tight. It was not open to inspection or tours. My watch said three thirty, and it was a bright, shiny afternoon.

I guess I have time to poke around a little yet.

While wandering around the family cemetery, I thought I heard a soft voice, kind of whimpering or something. I walked around a large stone monument and found a young man, kneeling over a grave--the grave of a young woman. The tombstone dates indicated she died at twenty. The young man did not hear me at first. But then I saw him stiffen slightly.

He turned his head and gasped. "Joanna!" he cried. "How can this be? We buried you, right here. Oh, how I have missed you." He rose and rushed over to me, arms outstretched as if to hug me. I felt something on my skin, but nothing really solid.

As I involuntarily tried to hug him in response, My arms grabbed--nothing! I felt a tear drop on my chest and the young man suddenly vanished!

Was he really ever there? what touched me--he or the wind? Was the tear his or mine? Was there really another voice?

I looked down--the grave stone was real, as was the name on it that he had called me.

What, exactly, did I see--or not see?

I don't know, but I was thoroughly shaken. It was so very real. I could only shake my head and wonder. Well, I can at least say I now number among those who have "been on the Elkhart Hill," something apparently highly esteemed in some circles.

And not only that, but I'd also joined the elite ranks as one of those who now had a personal ghost story about "the hill." Enough! Back onto the four lane and on Williamsville and Sherman to the Illinois state capital--Springfield at one-hundred-ninety-four miles past Go.

Long ago, in my senior high school English class, I wrote the required and dreaded, 'Senior Term Paper' and my topic was, Abraham Lincoln. I spent some two hundred clock hours on that friggin' paper, counting from the start of my research, through note taking, to the writing of three draft revisions, to achieve the final product.

I got my 'A'--and, surprisingly, a lifelong interest in the life and times of Abraham Lincoln. Although I'd seen some of the Lincoln sites around Springfield in my high school days, I'd not see all of them. So, I planned to stay in the state capital for three days to take in the "Lincoln sites" around town and nearby.

Since the day was fast growing late, I decided to get a motel, get my much needed clean up, and then some supper. The motel I chose, the Lincoln Motel and Dining Room, was another landmark site along Illinois Route 66 in Springfield. I fled from the front desk to my room to find the shower.

The room was cozy, the shower/tub absolutely divine. I spent a very long time soaking in the hot water and then standing in the hot shower after that. Glorious and cleansing of mind as well as body. Most of my pain and soreness was soaked away.

I didn't want to eat in for supper, so the kitchen graciously packed me a more than generous picnic basket at my request. My thought was to drive out to Lake Springfield for a lazy, late afternoon or early evening of relaxation and then start the Lincoln sites touring on the morrow.

The afternoon was mildly hot, so I had the windows down. I listened to Swifty's throaty gurgle out her pipes with immense satisfaction on the drive to the lake. It wasn't only males who could appreciate that sound or the machinery that produced it. I don't know where that appreciation came from as no one in my immediate family was a car freak, but I certainly wasn't complaining.

I'd been out and about the Lake as a high school senior and knew of a secluded, out of the way little spot to take my picnic. Although not a legal beach, the water stayed shallow for a short distance so that swimming was possible, if illegal.

I laid out a blanket from my motel room on a warm, grassy little slope and set up my lunch. In that lovely sun, it wasn't long before I shed my loose halter top, freeing my more than generous boobs to the bright light of day. I just couldn't pass up the chance to improve my tan without strap marks.

Hell, not much later, I decided to throw caution to the wind in my secluded spot and chucked the short shorts and sandals as well. Glorious. I loved to be naked inside but even more outside when chances permitted.

The tickle of the warm, gentle breeze had my boobs tingling and my nipples erect in short order. My pussy grew moist as the tickling breeze brought out my natural nectar. It wasn't long before I found one hand in my crotch and the other play across my boobs. The bottle of wine I brought along was enhancing the mood as well.

My truck driver bruises were still much in evidence, but the motel soak had pretty much eased the pain to a barely noticeable level. But I was in a dreamy mood and all of my hand actions were light and gentle as my mind drifted with the mood in a wafting daydream of self-pleasure.

My climax, when it came, was also gentle. I just sort of drifted over the top and eased into a gentle shiver of sexual release that for all its gentleness, was still highly intense in the feelings released. I was just as wet with my natural nectar as any other climax--maybe more so.

With my climax winding down, I lazily smeared my front side with sun tan oil. Then I laid back, facing the sun with my shades on and smiled. I must have drifted off to sleep for a while. I woke from the effects of the hot sun, I guess, and slowly sat up, still fight off the grogginess of sleep.

"Hi, gorgeous, and you truly are gorgeous. My name's Rex."

Enjoying your afternoon stint of voyeurism are you, Rex?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, I am. Not to change your mind, but you certainly don't seem to be in any particular hurry to cover up."

"Why should I be. You've apparently already spent some time ogling the goods. And speaking of that, just how long have you been sitting there beside me?"

"Oh, about an hour, I suppose. You look like you've been run over by a Mack truck. Do you just like rough sex or did somebody beat you up?"

"Something like that."

"Ok, I won't press you any further on that."

"Why don't you make yourself useful, Rex. Put some of this lotion on my back. I think my boobs and such are well enough done for now. What brings you out here to this spot? By the way, my name's Jen."

Joe took the oil and started on my neck and worked his way down from there with the oil as we talked.

"Oh, I found this spot quite some time ago on my regular hikes. I come here when I want to be alone and meditate."

"And what do you meditate upon, Rex?"

"Whatever's on my mind at the time. Life, troubles, girls, whatever. When school resumes this fall, I'll be a senior at the University of Illinois. I've been doing a lot of thinking about what direction my life is going after graduation."

"Sounds normal, Rex."

"Yeah, but things just got a lot more complicated, Jen."

"How's that, Rex?"

"My girl just told me she's pregnant."

"Oh."

"There's more."

"That's not enough?"

"According to her due date, at the time she got pregnant, we were at a frat party where she got drunk."