Stanley Steamer Ch. 03: Frieda Tells

I was quiet for the first few rolling minutes.

"Really? I asked. "Really," she said. "After just a few days?" I asked. She smiled. "You would not believe if I told you."

A more self-reflective smile took her. She looked lost in memory.

"There's a story," she said. "In a village up the north coast, the harmless town drunk was usually addressed as 'mayor'. One day the 'mayor' walked into the local motorcycle repair shop. The mayor leaned his hand on a just-welded metal piece and quickly pulled away. The mechanic laughed, 'Burn yourself there, mister mayor?' With dignity, he replied, 'Nope. It just don't take me long to inspect 'cycle work.' And life went on."

"That's me with Stan," Lorna said. "It doesn't take me long to inspect good man work and I'm not even a harmless drunk. I could... but no, we're aimed in such different directions. We're just pals." She looked lost.

We rode in silence to the casino's resort entrance. I wondered, am I interrupting something? Something to endanger my coming internship?

I decided to be proactive. "Will I be interrupting something?"

She waited awhile till we turned into the resort drop-off. "No. Nothing at all. Whatever happens, happens. Just enjoy the ride, girl. Okay then, tomorrow. You can sleep late, or till I call you when you need to be ready for Stan, or till the next earthquake. Ta-ta."

I carried my portfolio inside and retired to my anonymous bed. Sleep came later. Did I jill-off? What do you think?

=====

Lorna did not call TOO early. I had time for a nourishing if suspicious casino brunch with only harmless herb tea, no rousing coffee to kickstart me. Our plans were to be at a specific west-exposed glyph site, not too far away, well before sundown's magic hour there. That meant napping somewhere first. I cannot nap on coffee. Can you?

We loaded my gear in Heidi's front trunk and back seat. I did not squeeze against Stan on Heidi's luxurious bench front seat. We were still somewhat formal, as in, clothed. Shorts and tees for now, at least. I kept to my place.

Hey, Heidi ran silent! And she did not stink! I was in love!

"Yup, she's a big payback from my guy in Stuttgart," Stan said, "another clean Vee-Dub ZEE beauty with secrets - but those are for another day. Let's just say she can be a fast, fast tart. Did Lorna mention that?"

"Uhh, no, not really. Should I ask?"

"I'm sure she'll tell about that day. Maybe. Maybe censored a bit. But I don't spill those secrets. Wouldn't be prudent. Get it from the witnesses.""

I found that he spilled other secrets, but that came later.

We rolled in weird, ghostly quiet to Rancho Relaxo's rough access track, with Heidi's top down until then, and then up for good cover from dust.

Stan parked Heidi in his barn-workshop and rolled Tilly out. The 55-gallon kerosene drum lying front-and-center in the pickup bed gave off a certain tang, but not too bad, and staged between two 55-gallon water barrels. We loaded my photographic gear and secured it. Stan checked and re-checked, and approved it. He peered at a wide wristwatch.

"Three hours till we need to go," he said, waving down his hallway, "so it's naptime. Pick a comfy bunk and try to get good dreams." His bedroom door closed behind him. I picked a cell next to his office. I napped uneasily. Did I dream?

=====

The first couple of days in the western Mohave both excited and bored me. Excited, because awesome beauty and history and serious technical challenges. I endured many "learning experiences", oh shit.

And bored, because Stan was such a total damn mensh and never ever made a move on me. Tilly's outdoor shower misted-off our dust. We showered naked but not too close and with only a little leering. We napped on cots in separate air-cooled or -warmed pup tents. We were a polite, professional team.

We surveyed hidden desert corners along sometimes absurd tracks. Those corners would stay hidden; I was not illustrating a field guide and vandals would not be given maps.

The routine: We would arrive somewhere an hour or so before the magic hour, set-up for the shoot, and then maybe do a quick tear-down and silently roll awkwardly to a nearby site for last-moment marginal exposures. Then tear down, pack up, do that daddy-long-legs roll to the next site, or nap for some hours.

=====

We were mostly out of cellphone range but after one morning shoot we were not TOO far from Joshua Tree village's tower. We had holed up for the day at a rock tank, a mystic pool of springtime rainwater trapped in an eroded granite bowl. We would shoot just around the corner this sunset so this was almost a vacation day. An awning spread from Tilly's top gave shelter from the sun. We sipped cold wine and munched healthy snacks at folding chairs and table. We considered a clean naked dip in the pool before napping. I did, anyway.

Stan's Nokia flip-phone sang Ghost Riders in the Sky.

"Hey Babs," he greeted, "que pasa? Uh huh. What, right now? Okay, we're at that Jojoba Pool" - a stand of bushy jojoba trees screened a nearby sandy wash - "yeah, past the Three Monks" - low, undistinguished rockpiles - "and sure, no problem. Seeya soon." He flipped shut.

"The best botany prof at the local college, and a good friend, is risking a ride here for an urgent consultation, she says. I'm guessing twenty or twenty-five minutes. Have another orange?" He passed me a cold, wet fruit, the best sort of desert snack. Dry the peels for a day or two for a spicy campfire additive.

How many days does it take to reach "good friend" status with Stan?

We heard a motorbike from a few minutes off. A smutty dust cloud swirled from the sandy wash, blown away from us by a fortunate breeze. We had added a chair and cleared the table to make room for this consult's spread-out paperwork, or so Stan warned.

The dirtbike stopped. The lean but bulgy rider in tight denims dismounted, doffed her helmet, shook herself, and peeled away her fitted jeans jacket, uncovering a maternity sports bra just barely restraining gorgeous boobs, and a belly hanging over the jeans pants she had let out a belt notch.

She walked, not waddled, toward us. Six months gone, I figured.

Her Asian face looked familiar. Where had I seen her? Oh yes, that photo on Lorna's rogues' gallery wall in her office. Yet another contributor to the tribal press, then. Barbara Kim, originally from Seoul, if I recalled correctly. A strong face.

"Frieda Lagarda, meet Babs Kim, almost the tribe's bestselling author. But bad books on betting beat great books on drugs and sex. Sad world, ain't it?""

"Mucho gusto Frieda," She hugged me, and then searched my face. "Lagarda, Lagarda... like THAT Lagarda?" Her dark eyes contemplated me.

"Yeah, those Lagardas, but don't worry, she's okay," Stan vouched.

I knew the reality. Cahuilla Indians owned half the land in and around Palm Springs and they collected huge rents. The Cabazon band owned reservation 'rez' land, and the casino and resort, but they wisely hired working professionals to run the place at a profit. They mostly hired guys from New Jersey. Guys like my Uncle Lenny's associates, and my folks, escapees from Atlantic City before Trump ruined the place.

In case you wonder about my appearance, I am a Jersey strawberry blonde, straight from hopefully the best bottled dye on the market. I am told I do not look too bad, even when dressed. Thanks.

"Okay then, but here's the issue, Stanley."

Babs gestured at the air. Rocks and tools held papers to the table, resisting the relentless breeze. Stan and Babs spoke technical gibberish to my untrained ears. I poured more of this whatever-it-is cold pink wine and tuned out their double-talk and chart-shuffling. I tuned into 'scapes.

I like 'scapes. Landscapes, seascapes, cityscapes, skyscapes, rockscapes. I looked as keenly as I could at 'scapes near and far here, the far lost in the soft heat haze, and the nearby modeled textures of this hard little outcrop we parked on. My artsy visual system framed almost real abstractions, fey patterns, shaded lines like astrologic maps. Those 'scapes had to mean something to me. I had to see them right. That was my curse - seeing right.

The two scheming desert rats finished their 'consult' well before noon-ish. Heat was rising. I sweated in my shorts and bikini top. Babs sweated around her super-sports bra even after doffing her long jeans to expose a wide thong and amazing toned legs.

"This is just for from home and back," she said while peeling denim. "It's not school wear. Usually. Unless I'm really rushed. And I ride soft, sandy tracks now. Seedling here can't those skeleton-shaking and womb-rattling routes." She patted her bare belly.

Oh my! She was gorgeous! Super-tight, super-defined muscles everywhere but atop the pregnancy bulges, and a full-body embarazada glow!

I quivered! And moved beside her. "Umm, you probably get asked this a lot, but..."

"Oh sure, rub my belly. Everybody and their pet lemur wants to puppy-pet my guts, like I'm a fucking Buddha. Sorry, wrong culture. But go ahead." I rubbed her. Nice! Warm!

"And how about we all get wet?"

Off came her minimal togs. What a body! Off came Stan's shorts. He was hunky too. Into the pool the two went, hand in hand, Stan helping her on the slight grade. I thought about local standards and privacy. I stripped and followed them in, without her pregnant pre-waddle. We drenched awhile and then stood and air-dried.

Stan moved the folding furniture aside and unrolled a large foam pad under the sheltering tarp. "Stretch-em if you've got-em," he growled, taking one side of the pad and stretching his manly, muscled, hairy legs, his knees up slightly to give his notable scrotum a little ball-room. Babs stretched (as much as possible) beside him. I stretched full-out face-up on her other side.

"How did you get a body like yours, Babs?" I asked.

"Born with it. Worked at it. And some things just happen," she replied. "And you bastard, you'd better not spill my secrets," she warned Stan.

"Too late," he laughed. "Before that wild weekend when she got all preggers by party or parties unknown for sure, she's been the toughest rock-climber around. She rates her own chapter in the Joshua Tree climbing guide. And that was a great weekend anyway. Did you keep any DNA samples?"

"You fat-mouthed bastard, you did it again," Babs hissed. "I need payback, Stanley. Payback! But just a little payback, just a little favor." She batted her eyes at him.

"What, another favor? No mileage, I hope. Or iguanas."

"Not that. I am cramping somewhat fierce. Can you give me one of your famous therapeutic massages?" Her eyes begged. I should learn that.

"Right-oh." He sat up. "Backside first? Toes to thumbs?"

"Oh please!" Her voice did ring with hurt.

He retrieved foam cushions from somewhere. "Okay, put these where you need them, belly down, butt up." She was soon arranged.

Stan worked slowly from toes up to butt and back down the other leg. Her feet crinkled and her lungs sighed as he rubbed her soles and ankles. He really had to work for any purchase into her amazing leg muscles but she did not look like a runner. Butt-rubs; she twitched, maybe after a little pussy-poke. Back-rubs, she sighed. Shoulder-work, she mewed. Out each arm he went, easy on her palms and fingers. She melted into a limp puddle of woman.

I lewdly watched all this. He finished. I asked, "Can I get one of those?"

"Sure, lie down, however you're comfy. As Ozzies say, bracy yourself, Sheila!"

His hands were magic, toes to thumbs, only polite butt-rubs, but nice, nice. When he finished I asked, "Can you do my front, too?" I rolled over.

Babs appraised me. "You look pretty damn good, girl." She leaned to lick each nipple briefly. "Really nice." She rubbed my less-than-bloated belly - pretty tight, if I say so myself. "You better get her before I do, Stanley," she said.

Stan started with my hands, easily done, then up and down my arms, my stiff neck, my shoulders and spine worn and bent from bearing heavy equipment bags. Then down my sides, and up. And to my breasts. Nice rubs.

"Do you mind?" he asked? I shook my head. He suckled. I thought I knew where we would go, but not quite how to get there. This seemed a good start.

His magic hands continued on my belly, my hips, spreading my legs and kneeling between, his hard-on obvious. He worked up from a knee to my delta and down to the other knee, then back, petting my pubic mound, trailing fingers though the fine curls fringing my labia, and then my thighs, my knees, calves, ankles, and more ecstasy for my feet. I nearly cried. I felt wet, and not from the pool.

"Me now!" Babs said, rolling on her back. "Start down there and work up. I'll tell you where to stop."

She received more foot magic, and calf and thigh magic, and a slow, easy pussy-poke with knuckle-deep insertion - I saw that. Then his hands went up her sides and across her belly and under her big, beautiful boobs.

"Stop there," Babs said. "You know what I want. Both of you. Suck me! Oh fuck, I've been waiting so long! Suck me! I need you!"

Stan's fat cock was above her knee level and his mouth was placed just right. Mine was too, right then. We nestled against her glorious, fruitful body and suckled her glorious breasts. Our mouths nursed; our hands wandered; our fingers brushed her and teased her; and her hands stroked our pubes. I glanced down and saw Babs fist Stan's cock. I felt her fingers slide inside me, way in. She held our heads tight to her tits as we finger-fucked her.

Babs pushed Stan's head further down, amid her thighs. "You know what I want," she said. She pushed my body around so her and my breasts faced mouths. "You have lovely boobs, girl. Let's lick and tickle!" She slurped me.

Stan's mouth slurped her pussy. His hands reached to pull her knees up and rub her feet more. She sucked me harder. Her hand reached my pussy. Oh my! I think I sucked harder too. We switched tits and proceeded. Harder, yes.

I came a little on her fingers. She came a lot on Stan's tongue. I felt envy. Would he do me like that?

"Would you do me like that, Stan?"

"I thought you would never ask."

What? All I had to do was ask?

Stan and Babs moved so I was in the middle, Babs and I still had tit access, and Stan knelt below my feet. "Bottoms upward," he laughed, and rubbed my feet to near-orgasms. Or footgasms. Toegasms? No, those are kinky and not really sanitary. A toe up my pussy, oh no! Not even pedicured.

Rubbing my feet and ankles, and up my calves and down, and up my thighs and down, and up again, and my pubes, but then up to my boobs, pushing Babs' head aside to suckle the other tit.

But finally! His head there, lips there, his tongue there, all right there, oh fuck!

He nuzzled and licked, and persuaded my wary pussy that he was a friend. Then came the attack, gentle but firm, inexorable, his licks and lips probing my depths and clit and labia and back around and across my clit, and those hot patterns he must have learned from an expert, and around, and such good timing. And me and Babs suckling each other, my breasts and hers, our mouths so satisfied, that feeling, uhhh...

Babs pulled off me and asked, "Do you mind?" I would I have denied her nothing by then. She scooted over my head, dropped her pussy onto my mouth, and placed my hands firmly on her breasts, held in place by her relentless palms.

I had no choice. I was being licked, so I licked. I had not done a lot of this since CalArts but I remembered how. And why.

Then Stan stopped licking. Babs' thighs did not block my ears. Stan asked, "Do you want this?" I wanted everything by then. "Yes, yesss..." I whispered.

Stan picked up my butt, slid a cushion under me, and installed that long fat hairy cock directly into me. My tongue probed Babs. Stan's hands handled my breasts until he straightened, hugged, and suckled Babs. Her fingers reached me and tweaked my nipples; her beauty took my mouth. His cock moved insistently. Oh fuck oh fuck.

I gave Babs a good orgasm. Stan screwed me till my head unscrewed and fell off. He had not cum yet. How long could he keep going?

I found out.

"Ready for the next, Babs? How far will you go, Frieda?"

"Yes, yes," Babs insisted. I think I echoed her.

Stan pulled out of me. Babs fell onto me. Her belly and boobs pressed into me. Her tongue softly invaded me. I kept licking at her promised pussy. I had not done this much since CalArts either, but again I recalled where, how, and why.

Stan knelt behind my head. What? He moved closer. His cock entered Babs' vagina, forcing my tongue down to her clitoris. Oho! His balls bounced gently on my forehead for the first couple minutes. Then his pace picked up, his scrotum swung mightily, my tongue strained desperately, Babs gasped atop me and licked me harder, and harder, and Stan moved so much faster, faster.

Babs unmouthed me, jerked up, and cried, and cried still, and mouthed me again, harder, then gentler. Stan moved faster, and moaned, and grunted, and forced a good load of hot sperm into a womb that could not conceive again for a few months at least.

Stan pushed in, and stayed in, and then pulled back. I slurped the fuck-juice dripping from Babs' generous cunt, and then aimed Stan's still-hard but declining cock into my mouth. I sucked him dry. Then I returned to Babs to suck her dry, to drain everything fresh from her drenched love canal. I had another good slurp of Stan the Man. And then I yelled, because Babs tongue did me, yes she did me, she did me good, oh fuck. But I kept sucking Stan. He hardened again. What, more?

Yes, more. Stan sat crosslegged and dropped me into his lap. Babs knelt beside us and gave us her breasts to nurse. We did not move much for awhile. Well, I sort of exercised my PC muscles to give him a massage from inside. Then Stan started vibrating under me, and I felt his cock twitch and dribble. Not a lot of cum, I could tell. But Stan the Man finally relaxed.

Babs lay back and spread her legs. "Will someone or several of you please lick my pussy some more, pretty please?"

Stan and I laid side-by-side, cheek-to-cheek, tongue-to-tongue, to taste and savor and satisfy her. We pinched her nipples too, of course. This seemed to work. Babs screamed. Loudly. Ravens took flight from the nearby jojoba trees. Pebbles fell from nearby rockpiles. Iguanas ran.

Babs finally pushed us away. "I think I've had it for this afternoon. Hey, did I keep you kids from your nap? Don't let me interfere with this project."

She rolled upright. "Umm, do you guys think you could maybe help me off my fat ass and stand up?"

Her ass was NOT fat, and she was plenty spry, but we pretended to help her anyway. Naked hugs and kisses ensued. And a last cleansing dip in the rock pool, now warm. We emerged and air-dried fast.

Babs gathered her documents, dressed, was kissed and groped a bit more, dressed again (her top went askew - imagine that), waved us 'Sayonara' or whatever they do in Seoul or Joshua Tree, and left us. We were indeed tired enough to nap, but together, in only one air-conditioned tent. I figured we would double-up from here on. I was right.

=====

Photographic excitement remained and sexual boredom vanished over the next couple of days. Yes, I need only have asked. Yes, we fucked whenever fucking did not interfere with the project or meals. Our week-out could maybe stretch a day or two but this project was nearing its end. We were way, way out in the central Mohave now, on the margins of pre-invasion Cahuilla territory. It's almost the end of the line; time to head back soon.

Last night had been easy. Tonight would be easy. This was almost another day off. After our morning session and a fast camp brunch, we arrived in a middle-of-nothing hamlet of scattered shacks and trailers lined with sun-bleached vehicles spread over bleak, treeless acres. Welcome to the stinking desert.