At his request the truckie, who had
been driving his semi-trailer from Melbourne to Adelaide, had dropped him at
the crossroads in the centre of Panuka, South Australia, a place that merely
consisted of eight houses, a general store and a Country Fire Service station
housing one appliance.
Hoping to hitch another lift, he was now
walking along the forty kilometre stretch of the minor
road that linked Panuka to the more substantial town of Laxbury, where his mate
from university lived.
It was hot, very hot – he guessed over
40°. Taking another swig from his litre water-bottle, he kept striding along,
brain cogitating. Hopefully he had enough water, he already a good way down
this bottle which he returned to the webbing holder affixed to the rear of his
waist belt. Luckily, he had two more such bottles hanging from separate D-rings
located at the rear of his heavy ex-army rucksack. Not that the rucksack itself
was necessarily heavy, it was his rolled swag that was secured to the bottom that
added the weight. In normal circumstances the swag was
probably too heavy for someone on foot, but he was fit and strong and had
always anticipated being able to hitch a lift.
After walking for some two hours, he
was increasingly concerned, not a single vehicle had passed him going in either
direction. He could not be far from civilisation, he reckoned, for beyond the
strips of scrub that bordered the bitumen were vast fields of ripening grain –
wheat, he guessed, he not a country boy. Surely, there must be the odd
farmstead somewhere close to the road? So, if needs be, he should be able to
camp at one of them for the night and refill his water supply?
Having descended a slight incline to
the bottom of a dip in the road, he did not hear the vehicle approaching from
behind until it was almost level with him, giving him no time to raise his
thumb. A newish, hot-red-colour, Holden
Ute Redline with a throaty V-8 engine shot past him, clearly breaking the
speed limit. The brakes were slammed on, rubber burnt, as the Ute screeched to a stop some one hundred metres or so further along the road.
This was a stroke of luck. Picking up
his pace, he jogged up to the vehicle, the tinted glass of the passenger side
window gliding down as he approached. Pulling his sunglasses off, he leaned
forward to look into the vehicle.
“Are yer some sort of dipshit galah? What
the bloody hell are yer doing out here in the middle of nowhere in this fucking
heat?” the honey-tanned female occupant demanded, her glinting blue eyes looking
over the tops of the metal rims of her heart-shaped, red-glassed shades.
Feasting his gaze on the striking
Saxon-blonde girl, instantly filling with a jolt of lust, he nevertheless
managed to reply, “I’m heading for Laxbury. Thought I’d pick up a ride but
you’re the first vehicle I’ve seen in two hours.”
“Can’t yer read plain English? Didn’t yer
see the sign?”
Having no idea what she was talking
about, he said, “Pardon. What sign? And yes, of course I can read English, I went
to uni.”
“There’s a ruddy great sign back in Panuka
saying that the road is closed. All that heavy rain, a week back, caused a
flash flood which took out the bridge over Trickle Creek. So
no bloody vehicles can get through. They have to go around via Noonandatta.”
Unaware there had been rain, he merely
said, “Oh. I hadn’t heard. And no, clearly I didn’t
see the sign otherwise I wouldn’t be out here in the bloody Outback, sweating
like a pig, would I? So I suppose I’d best head back
to Panuka and hitch the long way round.”
“You daft galah, this isn’t the Outback!”
she retorted, snidely, before mirthfully chortling.
“Anywhere outside a metropolitan area
is the bloody Outback as far as I’m concerned,” he replied, becoming slightly
peeved at being ridiculed.
“A city drongo, are yer?” she responded,
semi-derisorily, clearly mildly rebuking him. “But yer don’t have to go back. I
can take yer the ten kilometres or so to the bridge, if yer want. You’ll probably
be able to get across on foot but you’ll still have twenty Ks to go to get to Laxbury.
But, yer never know, yer might manage to pick up another lift. It’s up to you?”
Despite her abrasive manner, the idea appealed.
The chance of hitching a ride with this particular babe had its attractions. His
penis was already stirring, his brain cogitating on the prospects of his
chances of flirting with her. And, as he did not like the idea of staying in
the sun, he gratefully said, “That would be good. Thanks. I’ll happily take my
chances on the other side of this creek place.”
“Put your stuff in the back. The lids
unlocked. There’ll be space near the tailgate,” she informed, in something of a
bossy manner – she was clearly used to giving out orders.
By the time he stowed his pack and returned
to the passenger door, the window had been raised. Slipping his sunglasses into
his breast pocket, pulling his floppy hat from his head, he opened the door and
clambered into the bucket seat. Silently, he prayed that he did not embarrass
himself by developing a raging stiffy although it might be too late as his
penis was expanding.
“Hi, I’m Brandi. Brandi Schlange from
Trickle Creek farmstead,” she said, parting her scarlet-painted lips in a smile,
proffering her right hand on which every digit sported a broad, heavy,
embossed-silver ring.
Her palm was wonderfully soft, and
warm, he taking careful hold of it. “Good to meet you.
I’m Jarrod Baluchi, from Melbourne.”
All this time the six-litre engine had
been ticking over. Turning back to face the road, she slipped the gearstick
into first and floored the accelerator. They shot into motion, she changing gear rapidly, until they were in sixth, and doing over
one hundred and thirty kilometres per hour. At least twenty Ks over the speed
limit, he reckoned.
“If you normally travel at this speed
there can’t be many cops around here,” he commented, increasingly concerned at
the speed they were travelling on what was merely a country road. Partially
swivelling in his seat, he smiled at her, hoping she did not resent what he had
just said and simply chuck him out of the Ute.
“No there isn’t! But who gives a shit about
fucking blue-arse pigs anyway!” she replied, seemingly indifferent, and certainly
not afraid to swear in front of a stranger.
Brandi Schlange looked to be about
twenty years old. However, hopeless at estimating girls’ ages, she could actually
be anywhere between sixteen and twenty-six, Jarrod supposed. Attractive rather
than super-model stunning, she had an earthy-sexual appeal. Sturdily built, he guessed
she was around one-metre-sixty-five tall, and was obviously physically fit, and
was certainly shapely.
A raffia cowboy-style hat, side brims
curving upwards, was on top of her long wavy blonde hair that hung down her
back, nearly reaching her lumber region. Each lobe sported an earring
consisting of a blue rhinestone, with three clear ones forming a drop beneath.
There was a similar arrangement gracing the navel of her six-pack stomach,
except that the blue stone was about twice the size of the others.
It was her clothing however and other
adornments that had virtually taken his breath away. She was wearing:
brown-leather cowboy boots with snakeskin embellishments; the most skimpy, cropped, denim booty-shorts he had ever seen,
that looked to possess only five centimetres of material at her hips; and a
matching denim bra, with tiny pockets over the nipples, that just about covered
her bulging grapefruit-sized breasts, the single front button straining against
its threads to keep the garment together. Her strong-looking left arm sported a
tattoo. It was of a brilliantly-detailed red, yellow, green and black snake,
the little finger of her left hand forming the tip of its tail, the nail
lacquered in gold, and it coiled around her arm, going under her armpit, over
her shoulder blade, the head inked just where the top of her left breast joined
her upper torso, its mouth wide, fangs tipped red, eyes a gleaming blue, forked
tongue in black.
All of her other fingernails were
lacquered in scarlet, matching her lipstick. From fleeting glimpses, he
presumed there was a tramp-stamp tattoo on her lower back. Did that mean she
was a tramp, he wondered? Was she the sort of liberated girl he had always
dreamt of meeting on a road-trip?
“So, what’s a hunky Italian stallion
like yer doing out here?” she asked, flashing him a mischievous grin.
That was a pleasing boost to his ego.
However, she obviously must have seen his now-bulging hard-on, he presumed.
That was embarrassing, for he had tried to cover up his increasing libidinous desire
by placing his hat in his lap. “I don’t know about being any sort of stallion
but I am a third generation Italian-Australian. And, I’m heading to Laxbury to
see my mate from uni, George Mancini. We graduated together. His family have a
fruit farm and I’m calling in before the two of us go on a backpacking trip
around Oz together.”
“That’ll be nice for yer,” she
responded, sarcastically. “What did yer study?”
“Computing.”
“That’d be fucking handy out here
where there’s hardly any bloody mobile or internet connections,” she said, in
sneering fashion. Then, more as a statement than a question, she added, “So, yer
must be about twenty-two.”
“Yes, that’s right,” he answered.
Whilst wondering what else to say, he saw a sign at an entrance to a property on
his left which looked to say, “Trickle Creek Farm”.
Brakes screeched, for two hundred
metres ahead was clearly the bridge Brandi had referred to. The right-hand side
had all too obviously collapsed, whilst the rest of it did not look all that
safe either.
“This is where I drop yer ’cos I live
over there,” she advised, wagging her left index finger in the basic direction.
“Thanks. Thanks for the ... erh ...
stimulating ride,” he said, with deliberate innuendo. Unbuckling his seatbelt,
pushing open the door, he got out.
Just as he was about to slam the door
closed, Brandi said, “I’ve just had a thought. If yer do manage to get across
the bridge without it collapsing under yer, you still might not get to hitch a
lift. You certainly aren’t gonna be able to walk to Laxbury today before it
gets too dark to see where you’re going. So, you’re gonna have to camp. Well, yer might as well bed down at our place
for the night.”
That sounded sensible. Or, was it that
his luck was in? After all, he fancied her, and she seemed to be attracted to
him. Was he reading the signals correctly, he wondered? For it was only too
obvious that the crotch of her skimpy shorts was now showing signs of being wet.
Clearly, she was turned on? What were his chances of getting up close and
personal with her? However, he did not want her to believe that he was being
presumptuous, in case she thought he was only interested in getting into her
panties – which he was. As for her actually wearing any underwear, due to the skimpiness
of her tattered shorts, he thought it most unlikely. “Well, I could walk across
the creek bed.”
“Wouldn’t recommend that,” she
advised. “There are loads of uneven rocks, deep pools of stagnant water and
thick mud. If yer slipped or got stuck yer might not get out. And anyway, if yer
camped at our place tonight I could take yer in a four-by-four tomorrow.
There’s a ford on our property that’s safe to cross, so we can get around the
problem that’s here.”
Patently, she was keen for him to
stay, or so he reckoned. Even though his half-hopes were dashed, she clearly
living with her parents, he eased himself back into the seat, saying, “Thanks.
That might be for the best so I’ll take you up on your offer.”
“Okay. Don’t bother with your seatbelt
just yet. Then yer can jump out and check the mailbox when we pass,” she
instructed, beaming him a wide, catlike, smile.