8 Miles High
by
Copyright©
2012, Harland
Sinclair
Published by Living Books USA
Smashwords Edition
NOTE: This work
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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author or publisher.
This book is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons whether living or deceased, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
* * *
8 Miles High
Like millions of others worldwide, I am one of those unfortunate people who suffers from pteromerhanophobia. In a big way.
Whoa! Wait a minute I hear you shrieking, especially as you can’t even pronounce terro . . . whatever. You suffer from what?
Pteromerhanophobia. To you and me it means “shit-scared of flying.” There’s just something wrong about a two hundred ton tube of steel with three hundred people inside it ‘flying’ eight miles high with only fresh air and engine thrust to stop it from plunging into the ground and splattering itself to smithereens.
Besides, mountains have a nasty habit of jumping out in front of aircraft, in much the same way that trees and bridges have a nasty habit of jumping out in front of cars. As do lampposts and at times, pedestrians. Though usually only the once.
Face it, gravity sucks.
Anyway, long story short, I found myself at D.F. Malan airport (now CTIA) in Cape Town, South Africa, having endured a horrendous two-flight that felt as if I was sitting in the back of a pickup truck doing a hundred miles an hour on a corrugated road in the Australian outback.
I don’t think the damn plane flew level for more than three seconds at any given time. I got off a nervous wreck and suffering from both sea and road sickness. How’s that for Zen?
Even worse, I was supposed to be in Cape Town for a one-day-only conference and would be flying back to Jo’burg later that afternoon.
The fuck I would!
Wasn’t going to happen. I’d rather have swum in shark-infested waters with a bag of chum attached to my leg shouting, “Here, sharky, sharky!”
Cape Town is notorious for its Great White shark population, with their ability to bite a Ford Escort in half.
So I came up with a brilliant idea. As it was the weekend and in the summertime, I decided I would hitchhike back to Johannesburg; a mere thousand miles North. How difficult could it be? Isn’t hindsight a wonderful thing?
Anyway, hitchhiking in those days was an acceptable form of transport. I did it all the time, before the nonces and perverts took to the road and Hollywood decided that it was a cool theme to exploit in their horror movies.
Three days later, I was stuck in the middle of the Small Karoo desert, gagging for water, almost starving to death, and the last car had zoomed passed me about six hours ago.
I had also walked just over eighty (yes, 80!) miles in the searing heat and had not thought to take water with me.
Remember the 2011 movie, “127 Hours”? Same thing . . . and just as stoopid.
I had spent the last two nights sleeping on the ground a few yards from the main road, freezing my balls off and justifying my predicament by recalling the flight here.
The Small Karoo is teeming with jackals, hyena, spiders, snakes, and a boat-load of weird other shit with way too many legs and eyes.
Oh, lions and leopards are also known to wander down this far in search of food. Food such as oh . . . I don’t know . . . perhaps the occasional stupid hitchhiker? Yep, for two nights, I had presented myself as an entrée in the African desert.
A fear of flying is a terrible thing. Once, on a long haul flight between Johannesburg and London, I tried to open the outer door of a Jumbo jet. Yeah, it’s that bad.
Coincidentally, the South African ‘Springbok’ rugby team were aboard and they apparently wrestled me to the floor and got me back into my seat, complete with a complicated set of knots in the seat belt.
I don’t remember very much of this as I was drugged out of my skull on some meds my doctor had given me so I wouldn’t freak out while I was flying. I guess they wore off, huh? My travel partner told me all about it a few days later.
As if this wasn’t bad enough, she also told me that I had gone to the toilet on my own in my dazed and stoned state, and had returned to my seat with my dick hanging out the front of my jeans.
I had walked almost the entire length of a Jumbo Jet with my cock hanging out of my pants and nobody - not even the cabin crew - had said a word! Aren’t people weird? Oh, I also tipped my food tray over the seat in front of me, all down the unfortunate woman who had been sitting there.
So there I was in the middle of a desert - hot, hungry, pissed off, starving, and wondering if another car would ever come by. I was on some kind of B-road; a lesser-used road that was normally only frequented by farmers once a week or so and local residents. As the farms out there are measured in square miles, local takes on a whole new meaning. Your next-door neighbour could be fifty miles away and technically also right next door.
A kindly soul had picked me up on the outskirts of the airport and dropped me off at the beginning of the Small Karoo dessert.
“It’s a straight road all the way,” he’d said, waving happily as he drove away. “You can’t go wrong!”
Yeah, right. Twelve hours later, an old farmer had picked me up, taken me some 150 miles or so and then dropped me off at his turning. I watched him for about ten miles as he disappeared into the distance. For nearly six hours, he had not said a single word to me. I had started to think that his beat up old truck was incapable of travelling more than 40 mph.
After he dropped me off and with nothing better to do, I started to trudge along to alleviate the boredom. It was better than just standing there like an idiot, being slow-roasted.
Ever few hours, when I heard a car approaching from behind me (I could hear them a few miles out), I would stick out my thumb as the vehicle screamed by, dragging me along in its slipstream and kicking up a cloud of choking, red dust. I may as well have been on Mars.
And then - because providence is female and a complete bitch - another car came out of the blue. I stuck out my thumb and waited for the inevitable slipstream and dust storm and sure enough, a minute later the car screamed past me.
But this one was different.
This one was a red Mercedes 450 SLC convertible. In the middle of the Small Karoo desert? It was being driven by a woman with her long blonde hair streaming out behind her like a pilot’s scarf.
I watched, my thumb still out to the side, as the brakes lights came on, the car’s nose pitched down, and I heard the squeal of types on tarmac.
She was stopping!
I quickened my pace, but as she was already a good few hundred yards down the road, I wasn’t going to run. At least not in temperatures over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, I wasn’t.
She had turned around in her seat and was watching me. All I could see was her hair and her sunglasses.
And then, to my delight, I saw the tail-lights briefly blink white as she engaged reverse and the car began to approach me, its transmission making that weird sound they do when reversing.
I sometimes wonder if vehicle manufacturers include a hidden message in their transmissions if you play them backwards rapidly. Just like playing the last track of the Beatles’ album, “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” backwards. You know, something like, Kill all hitchhikers! Kill all hitchhikers!
But I decided that I had either been reading too many Stephen King novels or had seen way too many late-night TV shows. It could of course have simply been the heat.
The car approached me at breakneck speed even in reverse, sashaying across the road as the driver tried to keep it in a straight line; not easy to do going 40 mph backwards.
I decided the best approach was probably to stop walking and wait for the car to come to me. In all fairness, the car pulled up alongside me with no casualties or loss of roadside furniture.
And then I knew it had to be the heat.
The driver, as already indicated, was a female with long blonde hair and was wearing sunglasses. What I couldn’t see when she’d zipped past me at a fraction of light speed, was the dress she was wearing. Or almost wearing.
It was white and barely covered her crotch. She also had on a kind of primrose yellow tank-top; a sleeveless top with an open V-neck front. I’ve no idea what they’re called, but they were popular with women in the 70s and 80s and made from a crêpe de chine kind of material that made tits look great.
She was also dripping jewellery. There was a ring on almost each of her long, thin fingers, a gold Kruger Rand medallion around her neck and earrings that twinkled like diamonds in the bright sunlight. Probably because they were diamonds, I later discovered.
The thigh muscle in her long, tanned leg was standing proud where she had her foot on the brake. Her other leg was lying casually against the car door, exposing quite a lot of tanned, inner thigh.
So, even in my condition and under the relentless heat of the Small Karoo desert, starving, parched and delirious with heatstroke, I determined that if I was sitting on the floor in front of her, I would have a jaw-dropping view up her skirt.
It’s the way we guy’s minds work and we make no apologies for it. Pussy comes first, then everything else. It’s not a character flaw; it’s a few million years of evolution and genetics.
We are primed and designed to seek out and locate pussy at great distances, and are genetically programmed with the urge to put our cocks inside said pussy once found, and empty our nuts into it. It’s really not rocket science; even the Neanderthals managed it.
So ladies, don’t hold it against us when we drive you crazy, always wanting to get inside your knickers and dive into that three-inch vertical slit that you guard so well and use as a weapon to control us. It’s our job!
Just as it’s your job to tease us with the damned thing and then make us work like dogs before we get to see the rabbit, let alone pet it or take it for a test drive.
Pussies are the proverbial carrot and men, unfortunately, are the proverbial donkeys in front of which the carrot (disguised as a pussy), is dangled.
Ironically, all men came out of one of these things and seem to spend the rest of their lives trying to get back in.
The great Charles Darwin (whose first book, incidentally, was published by one of my ancestors,) wrote an enormous tome about this whole concept. He called it, “On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life,” which is a bit of a gob full and was thus later simplified to merely, “The Origin of Species.”
Since the book’s inception in 1859, the human race has shortened the title even more and we now call it “Fucking to Survive.”
So, judging from the colour of this woman’s hair, I’d determined that the hair she had ‘down under’ (if any at all), would match the hair on her head. One could only hope and pray that it was not as long, because other than being a botanist, few men like a big bush where there really shouldn’t be one.
It was then that my would-be saviour uttered the immortal words, “Do you need a lift?”
I’m known for my biting sarcasm and it immediately shifted into top gear, fortunately only mentally as this stage. A slew of sharp retorts had already formulated in my mind and was ready to be launched.
I wanted to say, “Hell, no. I just felt like walking in the blistering heat in the middle of the desert with no water or food.”
Or, “No, thanks. I’m walking to Colesburg. I should be there in about three weeks at this rate.”
Instead, I dragged my eyes away from her legs, only for them to stumble on a pair of tits that defied comprehension. While her semi-transparent top did a good job of hiding the nipples, it did precious little to conceal the shape of her amazing chest.
These were every man’s idea of a perfect pair of tits. They were quite big, round, full and had a nipple the size of a Sherman tank’s starter button. It was also clear to me that bras were something that happened to other women, not this one.
So instead of a smart alec comment, I gave her my best smile and said, “I do, yes. Thank you.”
She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “Chuck your shit in the back and hop in, then.”
I chucked my shit in the back and hopped in. I was barely in my seat before she’d stepped on the gas and we were hurtling along at a steady clip.
The Mercedes 450SLC is a powerful machine with a lot of horses under the hood. I got the impression that this woman knew how to handle every one of them.
“Where you headed?” she asked, briefly glancing at me.
She’d taken me by surprise. I had surreptitiously been gawping at her legs. Fuck me, they were amazing! Even in my current bedraggled state, I had visions of this beauty lying naked on a bed, begging me to fuck her.
“Oh, er, Jo’burg,” I said quickly.
She nodded her head and smiled. “Of course. Where else.”
She reached into the console and pulled out a pack of Texan cigarettes.
“Smoke?” she said, proffering the pack.
“Nah,” I said. “I don’t smoke.”