Miami Bound

by Henry Morgan

  David smiled, and waited for the bus to pull out of the station before he turned down Main Street in search of a beer. He had enjoyed Minnie very much, although not quite as much as his Lapp sisters, but he was happy to be on his own again. After spending so much time by himself he had learned to enjoy his own company more than anything, or anyone, else.

  The establishment David ended up in was a bit warm and stuffy, and set too close to a busy intersection, but it looked like the only place in town so he pulled up a stool at the bar. The half dozen or so men in the place were all staring intently into their drinks, and one old timer who was missing a hand was concentrating on chasing shots of whisky with German beer.

  The bartender scraped the head off a beer with a wooden paddle, which he dropped into a jug of water. ‘Fine day,’ he said, setting the mug in front of David.

  ‘It’s a fine day, indeed,’ David replied, sensing the bartender was desperate for some intelligent conversation, and obliging him with an opening.

  The man’s face lit up. ‘That’s an English accent, isn’t it?’

  ‘You guessed it.’

  ‘Been to London once myself. Loved the people, but the city was dirty as hell. There was trash everywhere.’

  ‘That’s London.’ David helped himself to a peanut from the dish the bartender had brought him along with his drink.

  ‘But I loved all the old buildings and the history,’ the man went on eagerly. ‘We’ve got our own history right here, too, you know. There was a big Indian battle here about a hundred-and-fifty years ago. Wild place in them days.’ He seemed to be trying to unload a lifetime’s worth of conversations on one customer, and hardly stopped to catch his breath. ‘You could get a room, a shave and a woman for the night for just two bits, all under this roof. Of course, that’s all changed now, although you can still get your hair cut here. Not many bars in this country do that for you any more.’

  ‘Sure would like to see that,’ David said, now eager to escape the verbal tirade he had unleashed. He got up, looked around, and spotted a curtain made of colourful beads separating the bar from another room beyond. ‘Is that it?’ he asked hopefully. ‘Can I get a haircut in there? I could use a bit of a trim.’

  ‘That’s the place.’

  David walked towards the curtain, taking his beer with him.

  ‘Best barber in Fort Bragg, old Tom is,’ the bartender called after him. ‘Like one of them Indians from back yonder with those scissors, though, so better watch your neck.’ He laughed.

  The beads swept together like the rushes along a windy creek as David stepped into the backroom.

  Old Tom was obviously related to the bartender, possibly even his twin brother they looked so much alike. Tom, however, was wonderfully quiet and reserved. David exchanged a glance with him that communicated everything that was necessary, and headed for the vacant seat Tom indicated with a slight nod of his head.

  The coffee table in the small waiting area was strewn with the usual magazines, and David selected a computer monthly, hoping it might help him understand all the things he could do with his new laptop. He sat in the chair, began flipping through it, and came to an article on newsgroups.

  He had spent much of the last few years in the wilderness and, consequently, his knowledge of software and hardware was as extensive as his knowledge of flora in the region of the Upper Volta; he was years behind the times. Given his recent purchase of a state-of-the-art portable computer, and his desire to come to grips with it, his interest in the subject was keen. He had a basic knowledge of the World Wide Web, and he had done a bit of surfing on the Internet. He had used e-mail and he certainly was not a technophobe, but newsgroups were a novel development for him, and he read the article with interest.

  He learned that newsgroups had come into existence for the purpose of bringing likeminded individuals together around a common subject. Only four paragraphs into the article, he had decided to set up a newsgroup of his own dedicated to sadomasochism, and then he discovered that whatever group he could possibly conceive of already existed. They were all there. The article even went so far as to list a few of the more bizarre sites, the majority of which were dedicated to sex. In fact, almost all the sites beginning with an alt prefix were of an adult nature.

  He was intrigued, and excited. This was as good a way as any to learn about technology, while having fun with people who thought and felt much as he did about male domination and female submission.

  David left the barbershop with shorter hair, a keen interest in newsgroups, and the computer magazine tucked inside his jacket.

  Later that same day, David drove a bit further south but decided to stop before he got to San Francisco. He found a small campsite with all the necessary facilities, and decided to stay there for the night. He restocked his fridge with beers at the small camp shop, made some dinner, and then settled down to an evening in front of the computer.

  The machine was already set up for Internet access with a wireless modem, and the first thing he did was send a message to Justin back in England concerning the sale of his house, and asking him when he planned on arriving in Miami.

  With that taken care of, he loaded up some of the newsgroups listed in the magazine he had taken from the barbershop, and promptly began subscribing to a few. He soon learned that the groups with binaries in their title contained images.

  He downloaded a few pictures, and realised that much of what was out their on the Web had been hijacked by commercial companies trying to persuade members to visit their sites. It was not long, however, before he learned what size files were the most productive, and avoided the header messages usually employed by the more commercial sites. He looked at the section under the sender column as well, and searched out personal names, which normally meant the sender was a genuine group member and not a company trying to sidetrack him.

  His laptop seemed to warp time, because when he glanced at his watch he discovered with a shock that he had been downloading images for almost three hours, and during that time he had seen beautiful women in some of the most depraved poses he could ever have imagined.

  He had drunk a few beers while he surfed the Net, and he enjoyed stroking his cock close to orgasm, but now he stopped and got up to use the bathroom. Then he pulled another beer out of the fridge intending to continue relaxing with both his newest toy and his oldest. He had already learned how to open up new folders, and he filed away some of his favourite photographs in them. As a doctor, especially one with his particular interests, he was always eager to learn more about the human mind and how it attempts to bring order where there was once only chaos. He stripped naked, and spent about fifteen minutes categorising his folders before he realised what he was doing.

  The deep silence inside the van focused all his attention on his luminous screen’s mysterious portal into a virtual dimension. He felt as though he could lean forward and push his head beyond the flat screen as though it was the surface of a luminous pool. Then he would be able to see into this surreal and flowing world where beautiful women fucked their bosses the moment they arrived at the office; where pizza delivery boys ejaculated over sliced pepperoni for grateful customers who answered the door in garter belts and stockings and six-inch stiletto heels; where no woman ever said ‘no’ and every man had a cock worthy of a prize stallion.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said out loud, ‘what am I doing? I’m making separate folders for women with big breasts, small breasts, for redheads, brunettes, and blondes. I have folders for shaved cunts, hairy cunts, tattooed arses, dildo cams. Am I going fucking nuts?’

  He pushed the laptop away from him, and picked up his beer.

  When his heartbeat had slowed to normal, David pulled the computer back towards him and composed another e-mail to Justin, asking him again how the sale of his house was going. For a moment he considered shutting off the computer and goin
g to bed, but his curiosity was still up, and the portal into cyberspace remained open as he continued his virtual journey.

  To prevent visual overload he searched the groups for text messages, and signed up for one dedicated to swingers in the San Francisco area. He downloaded a few hundred headers, and trawled for those that looked the most interesting. He ended up downloading hundreds of headers and was amazed at how some of the messages contained actual addresses to people’s homes as well as phone numbers.

  He did not want to admit it, but he was feeling a bit lonely without Minnie, so he consoled himself with the candy box of delights that was the San Francisco swingers. He read up on how to answer messages. It was a mean old world out there. There were warnings about giving out your addresses and telephone numbers too soon, and it was supposedly not a good idea to part with money for a promised night of sex. But all these snippets of cynical advice were belied at the bottom of the page where it said, The vast majority of newsgroup subscribers are genuine and, while you may come across some people with their own motives for joining the group, by remembering the few guidelines above, you should be able to encounter likeminded people and make many new friends. Newsgroups are an excellent, quick and efficient way to meet other people.

  David checked out a few more newsgroups and downloaded a lot more messages. There appeared to be some pretty decent women out there itching for sex, either that or they had a fetish for being photographed naked on coffee tables whilst polishing various household ornaments between their stocking-clad thighs. Whatever the case, David had a lot of fun with his new laptop, and he thought he would reply to a few of these women and see if he could score some action for the couple of days he intended to stay in the city. He read the instructions again carefully and remembered to post the reply to the sender and not the group, otherwise the whole world, figuratively speaking, could read what he had to say.

  It was another hour before he finally managed to pull himself away from the screen and turn off the computer. Then he went to bed and slipped into the more natural virtual world of dreams.

  David’s breakfast was more eye-candy. He switched on his laptop the moment he got up, and was surprised at how excited he was that his e-mail inbox was flashing an envelope icon that read You have mail.

  He had seven messages, and the first one he opened was a note from Justin in England. Being around the same age as each other, both men tended to treat e-mails as if they were old-fashioned telegrams where you had to pay by the word, and Justin was a lot worse than David in this respect. His message read, Sold Camelot. Coming across in a week or so. Contact you soon. And that was all.

  David clicked on the next message, and discovered it was from a woman who wanted to meet him later that day, but only if he could send her proof, in the form of a photograph, that his erect penis was at least nine inches long and as thick as her wrist. She neglected to tell him just how thick her wrist was, however, and without the benefit of a scanner or the necessary software, David was proving nothing.

  Within the first twenty minutes he was online, however, Cindy - it was amazing how many women were named Cindy - sent him an additional five messages, each more demanding than the last. She even attached some pictures of herself. She was definitely an attractive woman, but her demanding attitude did not appeal to David in the least. For one insane moment he considered making a date with her just to teach her a lesson, but he controlled himself and ignored her e-mails. It was a personal vow of his that he would only train and chastise women who wanted it. Cindy knew what she wanted, and he hoped she got it, but she was not going to get it from him. The last he heard from her was a message in which she called him all sorts of insulting names. Attractive she was, eloquent she was not.

  Most of the other messages he received were no more promising. There were a few from bored housewives looking to mess around with someone in the afternoons before their husbands got home from work, and there were some David sensed had actually been written by husbands for their wives. These were more interesting to him because of the power and control aspects they revealed concerning the relationship of the senders, and he kept them for later consideration.

  With only a few days to spend in the city, he was not looking for anything too heavy. Nevertheless, he was about to get it in the form of a message with the header, Frisco Filly Needs Breaking.

  That was another lesson David had learned pretty early on - if you wanted someone to read your e-mail, it was best to sound bright and cheerful and interesting. Frisco Filly Needs Breaking was an attention catching subject line that did its job.

  He promptly read the accompanying message.

  Frisco filly seeks cowboy for riding and general saddle work. Ranch owners welcome. Into rope work, buckles and boots.

  Cute. David thought the woman definitely sounded like fun, and then he noticed the attachment. He quickly clicked on it, and the image opened up. To his delight she looked as much fun as she sounded.

  She appeared to be in her late twenties, or a well-preserved thirty-something, and her shoulder-length blonde hair was topped with a white Stetson hat. She was topless above a tight pair of jeans unzipped to reveal girlish white panties. She was posing out in the desert, a white Caddy with bullhorns on the hood and red leather trim parked behind her. She was all gleaming white teeth and gorgeous breasts.

  But more than all that - and David could scarcely believe it - he actually recognised her.

  He was looking at a picture of Donna from San Diego. Or rather, Donna from Frisco, as she now called herself. But whatever part of the west coast she preferred, David would always remember her as Donna from the International Club in Karachi!

  He slumped down in his chair and reached for the cereal box, never once taking his eyes off the screen, not even as he ate his breakfast. Finally, he pushed the bowl away and said out loud, ‘I thought you would never escape from Khan.’ He smiled, and was surprised at how happy he was to see her face again after so many years. He would have to meet with her, but now he was faced with a dilemma.

  The last time he had seen Donna she was being fucked senseless over the railing of Khan’s yacht off Karachi while someone filmed the action. The time before that, David had possessed her himself, several times, in the International Club. He had tied her down and caned her until she begged him to fuck her. Then he had left her behind even after she pleaded with him to help her get away.

  He made some tea and sipped it as he looked at the gorgeous woman staring back at him from the screen. His guilt at leaving her had been tremendous, and it came back to haunt him now. He consoled himself with the knowledge that he had still been learning how to survive himself back when he knew her, and had been in no position to help her.

  He remembered only too well that the last person who attempted to rescue her, a Japanese businessman, had taken an undesired starring role in the film on Khan’s boat, after which he was never seen again.

  David had not wanted to suffer the same fate, hence he ignored Donna’s plea to help her escape. He was not a coward, he told himself firmly. He was a survivor.

  By the time he finished his tea, all the memories of his time in Pakistan and Afghanistan had flooded back and he was forced to deal with them. There was not one good reason why Donna would ever want to see him again, a man who had fucked her, and then abandoned her. Nonetheless, David managed to convince himself that if she was a Frisco swinger, then she had recovered from her experiences in the International Club and, amazingly enough, remained psychologically unscarred, or at least unperturbed, by the memory of the sexual acts she had been forced into by her customers.

  He studied her features closely, searching for any evidence of tension in her lovely face. She appeared perfectly relaxed and happy, and there was no hint of coercion in her sexy stance.

  David considered himself selfish in the extreme, but for old time’s sake he wanted to see her. He m
oved the cursor across to the Reply to Sender button, and clicked it. But before he began typing his message, he decided not to refer to their previous encounter until she agreed to meet him.

  He fired off a response, and paced the RV in the hope that she was online at the moment and would get back to him straightaway.

  Over an hour passed and he still had not received a reply, so he jumped into the driver’s seat and drove a little further south. Then he stopped to make something to eat, and eagerly checked his mail.

  He had no new messages.

  Disappointed, he read the ones he had stored earlier and came to the conclusion that if Donna was off-line he might as well make use of some of the other women who had written to him. He answered every message, and within minutes he received a reply. It was from a man called Oscar, and he was desperate to see his wife, Tammy, fucked by a stranger with a large cock. It almost sounded like a plea for help, and the tone of the mail told David more about the man than it did about his wife.

  The message revealed that Oscar was considerably older than Tammy, and that he adored her but was not able to give her the satisfaction she needed between the sheets. Oscar felt he did not deserve to be married to such a beautiful young woman, and that his prick did not measure up to the job of pleasing her. If he could just give Tammy what he knew she wanted, he was sure she would be happy with him, because that was all he wanted; to make her happy. He loved her, and went through her linen basket every night checking her panties for telltale signs of the lover he suspected she must have.

  David recognised the type. The man was submissive, and he wanted to worship his wife for living with him. He replied to Oscar by asking, Does Tammy want this?

  Within minutes he received an answer. She says she’s not sure. The man had used an instant messaging service to get back to David, and they now proceeded to have an online conversation.

  Describe her, David typed.