Grayson, Kentucky… Yup, I visited there once. Many, many years ago…
I’d gone to meet a girl I’d met online.
Driving in from the Big City, I discovered truth to the notion that small-town folks are often friendlier than their urban counterparts. Almost instantly, I felt charmed and welcomed.
Randoes smiling, making conversation. Strangers strolling by at the gas station, happily asking “How are you doing today?” as I was filling up my tank. At first, it was slightly off-putting, coming from the Big City, where most everyone is tight-lipped and in a hurry. But I quickly came to appreciate Grayson’s slower pace and congeniality.
Grayson, to me, was like a real-life embodiment of The Andy Griffith Show. It just exuded that category of genial warmth and inviting atmosphere.
Not only were the people pleasant, but I also found the area’s surroundings majestic. And green. Full of bucolic foliage emblematic of the Appalachian Plateau… That sorta gorgeously rugged terrain steeped in rolling hills and deep plunging valleys... Panning my gaze, I admired a multitude of oak, hickory, and maple trees alighting under the big blue sky, sniffed in a stack of fresh air, and appreciated the peaceful rush of a nearby stream as I idled at an intersection.
Seizing on the feeling, I whistled The Andy Griffith Show’s theme song over an obnoxious AM radio ad for an ambulance-chasing lawyer.
When I arrived at my motel, which boasted of having “Color TV!” the place was quiet. Nearly to a creepy extent. I might have been the only guest there, at this roadside, self-proclaimed “Motor Hotel.” I wondered who exactly would be staying at a roadside motel, in rural Kentucky. Perhaps other people in town to meet people from the internet.
After checking in, getting situated, I decided to get some exercise and walked a couple of blocks down to the downtown but didn’t find much. I’d read an article in Rolling Stone about how Walmart and its pernicious, predatory business model had killed Small Town America. Decimated Main Streets. And that was what I found. Boarded-up shops, empty buildings. I can imagine it being far worse now, with all the phone zombies, Amazon, post-Wuhan Virus…
After my disappointing foray downtown, I returned to my motel, washed myself up, slapped on some deodorant, trimmed my nose and ear hairs, changed into a nicer shirt, and readied for the big night. Lil Wayne’s “Lollipop” was on MTV, on my room’s “Color TV!”, and I grooved and lip-synced with myself in the bathroom mirror.
I was psyched to finally meet my internet girlfriend. We were to meet at a bowling alley that evening. But she wouldn’t be coming alone. She would be accompanied by her younger sister. Which I didn’t really like. I wanted to meet my internet girlfriend and only her. But I could understand. Meeting a stranger online was, I’m sure, why she didn’t want to meet me alone.
Despite the 1950s sitcom vibes, Grayson had to have its darkness... So I plugged in my laptop, connected to the room’s ancient 56K modem. After enduring a painful series of strangled beeps and white noise, I started Googling “violent crime,” “crime rates in Grayson, Kentucky.”
But my search didn’t yield much aside from a 1993 school shooting, when some shitbag pulled a copycat attack inspired by Stephen King’s Bachman novel Rage... Then I read about a few meth labs exploding or getting raided… But crime in Grayson seemed nothing like the urban war zones, gang violence in the Big City. So I felt safe enough.
However, I considered my safety. I didn’t carry much cash and decided to stash my gold watch at the motel.
It’d be a pretty dastardly scheme to lure a stranger from the Big City to Grayson, Kentucky, just to rob him. The local scammers and crooks could easily rob locals, I thought. But maybe they already robbed all the locals and were widening their base.
Or were they trying to steal my kidney? I was more concerned about getting my kidney stolen than anything else because I’d recently seen a movie and read an internet story about organized, international kidney thief syndicates. And that was more in line with the sort of scam I’d envisioned. A healthy kidney could fetch $40K to $50,000 on the black market.
(For a time, I worried everyone, anywhere might be conspiring to steal one of my kidneys. That even visiting a restaurant or a trip to the dentist put me at risk of waking up in a bathtub filled with ice cubes.)
Just in case I was being drugged, about to have my kidney stolen, if I got groggy before passing out, I planned to yell out that I have AIDS or Hepatitis C or something like that. Sure, that might not stop a highly professional, diabolical and well-prepared kidney thief. But maybe it’d work against my date.
But fortunately, that night’s events never reached such dire outcomes. Although what transpired was dark, too, in its own right…
I’d videochatted with the girl. I’d seen pics. But when two young ladies entered the bowling alley, I was struck by their appearances. They were practically identical twins. They looked about the same age. And both had heavenly faces. Both with perfect Barbie doll features and facial structure.
But from the face down, the two were far from alike. One had an hourglass figure, was showing lots of skin in a black half-shirt and a shorter-than-short plaid skirt. Her silver, fuck-me heels clicking louder upon approach. While the other, in a loose floral sundress, had a squarish physique, as if she were built of Lego blocks.
But far worse…
She wore sandals with socks.
I’d only seen headshot photos of my internet fling and when we’d videochatted, I’d only seen her face. But still, I was invisibly slapping myself. How could I not have known? Or thought to check…
That she wore sandals with socks.
Bright white tube socks underneath big clunky Birkenstock-style sandals too...
As the two approached, my heart thumped like a drum. I was hoping, praying, just really, really wanting the girl in those loud, click-clacky heels. No, not the girl in sandals with socks. No… Not the girl in… No… Please, not the…
Then they introduced themselves. And yes, mine was the one in sandals with socks.
I was disappointed. But I decided to stick it out. I’d really vibed with this girl. We’d had long chats and shared secrets, deep thoughts. We both said that if it didn’t work out when we met that we could be friends.
However, what happened next would change everything…
As we sipped Cokes, munched on pepperoni pizza, the younger sister, who was sitting to my right, without provocation, ran her hand underneath the table, and rested a warm palm on my thigh.
She played coy, showed no change of expression as she went below the belt. Began snaking her sticky fingers under my cargo shorts. Then she went below my boxers. Wrapped her soft digits and palm around the tip of my cock, which was growing, inflating like a balloon. Lightly, she squeezed and caressed my mushroom tip. Started working her way back. Glided her palm along my shaft. Then, her hand still slick from the oily pizza, she started to slowly jerk off my suddenly stiff dick.
Her sister, to my left, showed no sign of knowing what was happening and went on with this long story about her cat’s strange habits and that she honestly thought her cat might be gay.
I’d never heard of a gay cat, but it didn’t shock me. I think it’s great that cat was living its truth, its best life. And I might have been able to offer more than an occasional assenting nod or “yeah,” as she spoke of the cat, its gayness. But I was clenching my teeth, my cock hard as concrete as my internet girlfriend’s smoking hot, horny little sister went full speed, throttle-choking my chicken. She must have been left-handed too, with the precision and strength with which she wanked me. Or at least was ambidextrous.
Whatever it was, it took everything I had not to flip over the table, fling the nymphet to the floor, hike up her short skirt, tear off her panties and plow into her.
The nymphet was wearing one of those sexy Catholic school-type skirts. It was criminally short too. Upon first sight, I’d been silently hoping she left the skirt on as we bowled, so I could sneak glances at her legs and ass, and the whole meal I’d been doing all I could to avert my eyes from scoping her svelte, luscious thighs. But now that she was strangling my dick, not reacting was tortuous…
Thankfully, Socks and Sandals got up to use the bathroom, mid-handjob, so I was finally able to turn my attention to her sexy sister and her most wonderful helping hand.
Our table was in the back corner of the bowling alley’s dining area and there was a red and white checkered tablecloth overhanging the table, so no one, except maybe a mouse crawling on the floor, could see what was transpiring under the table. That my date’s college-aged sister had reached into my cargo shorts, was performing a surprise sex act on me.
I figured it was time to return the favor. As Socks and Sandals shuffled off toward the bathroom, I swung my gaze to the nymphet, who was coquettishly looking the other way, chewing on her lower lip. Admiring her features, her pointy nose and super high cheekbones, I just loved how deliciously trashy she looked, wearing that much glittery makeup. With fake lashes that long. Platinum-blond hair teased that high. Even some strippers might have told her to tone it down. But I was game…
I sniffed a tang of the nymphet’s fruity perfume, then peeked below the table, for an instant, just to check that I wasn’t imagining things. I wasn’t. Then I raised my gaze to hers. Our eyes met. Instantly, I smiled and chuckled and she returned my smile. Hers was a sexy, crooked smile, and it possessed a certain mystery. For a second, I examined her physiognomy and had to wonder about this chick… Here was this girl, only 21, giving an unsolicited handjob to her 25-year-old sister’s date, a random 28-year-old stranger from the internet… Just who the fuck was this girl?
Sure, I was a good-looking guy. In shape. I ran, swam, walked, played racquetball, did calisthenics, lifted weights. But I was also a bookish corporate dweeb with terrible anxiety. Porno flick shit, stuff like this never happened to me. I was suddenly feeling as if I’d stepped onto the set of a Girls Gone Wild video rather than The Andy Griffith Show. But maybe shit like this happened all the time in Grayson, Kentucky. I’m not sure. Whatever... I went with it.
Like a submarine plunging below the sea’s surface, I lowered my right arm underneath the table, slapped and clasped my right hand onto the fine young freak’s legs, which were crossed, and petted, stroked her delicate thighs. Her thighs felt soft as feathers. Feeling along that smooth skin as she pumped my cock was bliss.
I crawled my hand along her sumptuous thighs, worked my way up, went under her skirt and then made a beeline for her cunt. As I cupped the girl’s cunt, over a pair of thin cotton panties, I felt that she was bare, down there, and it gave me a thrill... Feeling her bare cunt breathing… Warm as a midsummer breeze...
I slipped my middle and index fingers underneath the hem of her panties’ crotch and playfully explored the young skank’s slick, bald mound. It was just as svelte and soft as her thighs. And radiating heat. Afterward I traced the folds of her fat, outer pussy lips, felt along her wet hot cunt crease. Right as I touched her slippery slit, she groaned, audibly, under her breath, began beating me off harder.
Though I’d smiled at her, in acknowledgement of her efforts, I’d kept silent about… whatever we were doing… Neither of us made any mention of our illicit charade. In fact, we maintained small talk, her telling me about running track for her college. But when my fingers found her opening, started sliding in and out of her steamy, tight little pussyhole, she unloosed a whimper and a slight “ooh.” Quickly went quiet. And all subsequent conversation ceased.
I began rotating between fingering her cunt and flicking at her clit, which was enlarged and the size of a kidney bean. With each flick at her throbbing clit, she seemed to inch up in her seat a bit, so I kept doing that. Then I noticed her posture go straight as a pole for a beat before she relaxed back into a slouch, and she covered her mouth with her free hand, leaned closer toward me and whispered, in a sultry voice, “I just came,” which pushed me over the edge. The floor then fell from under me, euphorically, and I blasted a big wet load into my boxers. Thank goodness my cargo shorts were a dark color. If they’d had been gray…
The nymphet noticed me coming and giggled, pulled her hand away after squeezing out the last few drips. Then she wiped her small hands clean with a clot of napkins. I, likewise, withdrew my guilty hand from her crotch and also snatched a wad of napkins from the dispenser. A premonition struck and I spotted Socks and Sandals, at 11 o’clock, emerging like a Lego figure on the horizon. Yet she was still at a safe distance, so I asked the younger sister for her phone number or Myspace. Her eyes narrowing into a surly, vexed countenance, she capriciously shot back, “Like, why, so we can date?”
Honestly, I was hoping to have Round Two later at my motel room. But, alas…
“Uh,” I could only stutter. And when Socks and Sandals returned to the table, began pulling back her chair, her sister rose to her feet, pointed at me and angrily declared, “He just asked me out!”
Flabbergasted, my tongue felt made of stone. I couldn’t even manage a word. Then Socks and Sandals cursed me out, threw the remnants of her Coke in my face and the two stomped off in a huff. I’d expected a sardonic wave or a middle finger from the nymphet but received none.
In hindsight, sure, I probably should have resisted the nymphet’s naughty temptation. But, to this day, I’m unsure what even really happened. Perhaps that was the nymphet’s way of “vetting” her sister’s internet dates. Though I guess it worked. And was far more cost-effective than hiring a private detective...
Whatever it was, it was an unforgettable fap. Plus, I am very grateful that I didn’t get my kidney stolen.
Heading back to my motel, I decided to leave the next morning and never returned.
Still though, to this day, I get more than bad fashion vibes if I see anyone wearing sandals with socks…
