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      Junkyard Goddess
© 1999 by Sidney Durham



Note from the author:  This guy Joe and I were friends.  He and I could not have been more different: He was an ex-convict, a member of a biker gang that actually got into a bar shootout a few years later.  I was young, career-minded, on the climb.

Joe was the best sports car mechanic in town and we spent hours together laughing, drinking beer and working on my 1971 MGB, tuning it to perfection and covertly disabling the emission control system.  He taught me, charged me at cost for parts, let me take his tools home for the weekend, and never billed me for his time.

I got busy with my career and our paths diverged.  Several months later I went looking for him.  His friends told me he'd been killed when the front wheel of his motorcycle slipped on a rock.  They didn't know how to find me to tell me, they said.

This is for Joe.

Junkyard Goddess
by Sidney Durham

It didn't seem real.  It shouldn't have happened, but there I was, sitting in a junkyard office.  The word "office" was a kindness, but that was the most generous thing I could call it.  I was sitting on a filthy settee, worrying about whether or not it would leave grease stains on my brand new suit.

Lucky but stupid, that was me.  I had been lucky that a tow truck happened to be going by when I broke down, but it was incredibly stupid to allow the tall bearded beefy guy who had been driving the tow truck -- Joe, according to his shirt -- to "take a look" at my broken beamer.  His clattering rusted truck should have been ample evidence that care of precision automotive machinery was not the man's strongest skills, but there were even more clues.  Joe was a biker.  He had a long pony tail, a sleeveless leather vest, and a black T shirt that said "Harley" on it.  And he had tattoos.  He scared me.

I sat beside him in the front seat of the noisy tow truck as he drove me to his "place," my feet perched on a litter of beer cans and automobile parts that rattled around on the floor.  In my suit, with my briefcase on my knees, I felt preposterously out of place.

The settee in his so-called office was uncomfortable.  I crossed my legs, careful to keep the fabric of my suit from sliding against the grimy cracked plastic upholstery.  I had never been in such a place.  Dirt seemed to be everywhere, as if scummy floodwaters had filled the room and evaporated there, leaving behind a thick greasy coating.  It was hard to imagine how anybody could even want to work in that kind of place.  Even the air seemed to be soiled and I wondered if it was safe to breathe it.  One more time I considered and rejected the idea of calling a friend to come and rescue me.  I didn't want anybody to know how stupid I'd been.

I got up and wandered around the room.  As an office, it didn't have much in the way of class.  There was a prehistoric metal desk on one side of the room with a wooden swivel chair that should have been put out with the trash fifteen years before.  One of the four wheels was missing, and the chair slouched to one side like a slack-spined teenager.  The telephone looked like the kind of thing you should put a condom on before using it.

Across the room from the desk was a wall full of pinup calendars and a carefully arranged row of photographs of Marilyn Monroe.  There would have to be pinup pictures of some kind in a place like this one.  No self-respecting woman would ever allow herself to be found there.  Nor would a self-respecting man.  How could anybody be willing to work in such conditions?

I walked along the wall, examining the photographs of the dead star.  Most of them looked like movie studio publicity shots, but there were a few pinups in the collection.  I could almost imagine Joe, my rescuer, sitting behind the desk, yanking on himself with grimy hands as he looked at the pictures.

I hadn't really thought much about Marilyn Monroe before, but I could see from the commercialized allure in the photos that she would have been the kind of woman I could have fantasized about.  I gave Joe a couple of points in the plus column.

I sat in the teetering chair.  In my profession that's a way to gain a small psychological advantage on another guy.  If you go to his office and he isn't there, you sit behind his desk in his chair to wait for him.  It's important to know these kinds of things in my career.

I looked at the photos again and the idea of masturbating wandered into my mind.  Who would know? My meager addition to the mess of papers and parts on the desk would go unnoticed.  And I had gotten pretty good at doing it quickly.  Dating and the despairing search for sex didn't fit my career plan so my fist was my only lover.

I returned to the settee and dropped my head back and closed my eyes, finally conceding that I would have to get my suit cleaned.  I dozed.

The office door opened with a long squeak, waking me.  In came the most strangely beautiful girl I'd seen in a long time.  I say "strangely beautiful" because she was not beautiful in the movie star sense, nor was she beautiful in the same way a girl that I might date would be -- if I had time to date.

At the most fundamental level this girl was simply beautiful.  She could have had any man she wanted, anywhere, any time.  However, she had spoiled her beauty with her choices of makeup and clothing.

No truly beautiful woman would wear that much blue eye shadow, would she? And no truly beautiful blond would wear so much shiny crimson lipstick, would she? And she certainly wouldn't have her hair done in that ancient Marilyn Monroe style...

That was it.  She was a dead ringer for Marilyn Monroe.  Her choices of makeup and clothing were designed to accent the resemblance.  And her figure was legitimately stunning.  She was wearing a pink fuzzy sweater that hugged her full breasts tightly, and a wool skirt that molded itself to her hips and buttocks.  Her shoes were scuffed white high heels, just a bit higher than normal, accenting the line of her calves.  Nylon stockings gave her legs a golden tanned color.

She stood there, hand still on the doorknob, feet slightly apart, watching me look her over.  A little grin came and went. "Joey said to tell you he hadda go out on another call," she said.  Her voice was high and whiny, fitting her image in a sad way. "He said he'd be back in an hour or so."

I looked across the room.  Now the dingy photographs lining the walls made more sense.  They were actually photographs of this girl -- appearing to be aged as a result of the filthy environment.  Joe hadn't put the photographs on the wall to create a little shrine to Marilyn Monroe.  He had put them there as a shrine to this girl instead.

"Like them?" came her voice from behind, startling me.

"They're very nice.  Who took them?"

"Guy I know," she said. "Joe hates them.  He keeps saying he's gonna burn `em, but he never does.  He says he doesn't want guys like you looking at me the way you are."

I looked away, but it was too late.  I'd been caught, eyeing her breasts comparing her with the photographs. "Sorry," I muttered as I returned to the dingy settee and resumed my seat. "Are you and Joe married?" I asked, hoping to divert the subject.

"Nah.  He's my just my sometimes guy.  He's very protective." She chewed her gum for a few seconds, watching me. "Gave ya a boner, didn't it?" she asked.

"I beg your pardon?" She was right, but I was put off by her impudence.

"A boner.  You know, a hard on.  You got one, don't you?"

"That's nonsense," I said gruffly.

"A girl can see," she said.  She faced me squarely, not more than two feet away, and pressed her hands under her breasts, lifting them. "They're real, you know."

"I'm sure they are," I said.

"Hey!" she said, sounding hurt. "I don't lie about things like that!" Her voice had gone up several half-steps and sounded like she'd sucked helium. "Honest!" she added for emphasis, another half-step higher.  I started to wonder what she sounded like when she came.

Without any hesitation she pulled up her sweater, revealing the undercurve of her breasts. "See?" she said defiantly. "No scars! I'm one hundred percent girl! Betcha you really got a boner now, huh?" She pulled down the sweater. "Want me to blow you?"

"I -- I beg your pardon?" I stammered.

"Blow you.  I'll suck your dick, if you want me to." She bent, reaching for my zipper. "Scoot out a little," she said.

Without thinking I raised myself on the settee to move my hips forward.  Standing between my legs she efficiently unzipped my pants and pried out my cock.

"Wow," she said, in that breathless Marilyn Monroe voice. "That's a thick one.  I just don't know if I can get my little lips all the way around it!" She knelt and took me in both hands and started stroking me. "You hafta eat me first," she said, grinning up at me.

"What?"

"Eat me.  You have to eat me out first."

"No way.  I don't even know you."

"Oh listen to Mr.  Safe Sex! You were gonna let me suck you off and that's okay, but you won't eat me?"

"I don't -"

"You don't? Well then, maybe I don't either!" She stood emphatically, leaving me sitting there with my cock sticking up in the air.  I looked down at it, giving serious consideration to grabbing it and finishing what she'd started.

"Or maybe I do," she said softly, reaching behind to unfasten her skirt.  She was wearing only a garter belt underneath, and as the skirt slithered down her legs to the floor it revealed a patch of fine black pubic hair.  She fluffed the hair and ground her hips toward me, inches from my face. "Well? You gonna eat me?"

"Why are you doing this?" I asked. "We don't even know each other."

"We do now," she said, looking meaningfully at my cock. "I mean, after all, I'm lookin' at your dick and you're lookin' at my pussy.  I think we know each other pretty well.  Besides, I'm kinda a free spirit."

I leaned forward and cupped her satin-smooth buttocks and plunged my face into her heat.  My tongue probed and found her hard-buttoned clitoris almost immediately.  She ground her hips forward as I lapped at her, and within a few seconds she was gasping, her hands clutching my head to press my face into her.

When she calmed she settled to her knees. "Now get ready for the blow job of your life," she whispered.

She grabbed me.  Her fingernails were a shiny red color, matching the glossy red of her lips, and her smooth pale pink fingers seemed fragile and delicate against the dark, ridged thickness of my cock.

She paused, holding my cock in front of her chin like a microphone.  Her tongue flicked out like a snake's does and tapped the underside quickly. "Are you ready, baby?" she crooned, tipping my cock back and into her hot mouth.

Suddenly it occurred to me that if Joe came back I could be a dead man.  But it didn't matter.  Her tongue was squirming, slithering up and down me as she bobbed her head, and she paused at the top of each stroke to gently ring me with her tongue before plunging down on me again.  Her fingers were under my balls, lifting and squeezing them gently, and her other hand gripped the base of my cock and moved up and down, following her mouth.

I held her face, spreading my fingers, and I could feel the inward movement of her cheeks as she sucked me rhythmically.  With my thumbs I touched the juncture of her soft upper lip and my hardened shaft, and I followed her lip up and down as she continued to rock her head.

She pulled away and grinned at me.  I saw that her lipstick was nearly gone, and I could see it smeared along the length of my throbbing cock.  Something about this triggered me and I lifted my hips, trying to get back inside her mouth.

She moved back abruptly and stood. "That was a pretty good warm-up," she said, "but I want a regular fuck.  Don't you?" She pushed me back so that she could straddle me on the settee.  My lipstick-streaked cock was bumping her, probing into her soft pubic hair, and she grabbed it roughly, moving it underneath.

Then, slowly, with excruciating deliberateness she settled.  With her hands on my shoulders she began sliding and tugging on me.  Her eyes were closed and she was biting one side of her lower lip.  I stretched up and licked her lips and her tongue came out again and met mine in midair, tapping it the same way she'd tapped my cock with it.

I was holding her breasts, kneading them softly through the sweater, and she leaned forward bringing them toward my mouth.  I lifted her sweater kissed and licked and sucked her nipples as she continued to move on me.  I looked up at her face, her closed eyes, her eyelashes fluttering on flushed cheeks.  It was almost as if I were really fucking Marilyn Monroe, or the ghost of the long dead blond.

I felt tightness begin building from the base of my spine.  I closed my eyes and bucked up, driving deeply into this woman, this Marilyn Monroe, and shuddered the best I had to offer into her.

*                        *                         *                         *                         *

"Fuckin' foreign cars."

"Huh?" Confused, I opened my eyes and looked down quickly, thinking my cock was out.  It wasn't, but there was a small wet stain on the front of my trousers.  A wet dream, I decided.

"I can't fix it," said Joe, still standing in the doorway. "I called a cab for you."

I got up and pulled my sticky undershorts a little, adjusting them.  I walked toward the door, past faded photographs of the dead glamour goddess.  Her eyes seemed to follow me.

Joe watched me. "She was the greatest, wasn't she?" he asked.

I picked a ball of pink fluffy lint off my lapel and put it into my pocket. "Fuckin' A, man," I said.  We grinned at each other and he held out his hand, palm up.  I slapped it and shook hands with a gentleman of impeccable taste.

Junkyard Goddess, © 1999 by Sidney Durham.  All rights reserved.

Sidney Durham is the author Butterflies on a Mirror (winner of the Frankfort eBook 2000 entry), and Loveseat Stories, both  available at Renaissance E Books.  Sidney's eBooks are top-notch quality erotica - titillating, wonderfully unique, and well written.  The Erotica Readers Association highly recommends Mr.  Durham's books. Be sure to get your copies, an incredible bargain at $4 a copy.

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