Jeremy Edwards, erotica – Muriel, Justus Roux’s Erotic Tales

Jeremy Edwards, featured presenter at the Salon on several occasions, is guest writer this month on Justus Roux’s site. Jeremy is an extremely gifted erotica writer and is tentatively scheduled to be at the Salon this August.

Jeremy Edwards

As a hardcore environmentalist, I’ve always felt weird about my
obsession with big-ass automotive tires. I never wanted to buy into
the Great American Motor Vehicle Fetish … to glamorize these
machines that are, at best, a mixed blessing.

But I had to spend a lot of time on the road when I was a traveling
saleswoman. My hilarious friends used to kid me about my alleged romps
in the hay with farmers’ sons. Meanwhile, the reality was that I was
fucking truck drivers northbound and southbound on I-95. Inhibitions
were broken down in many a breakdown lane, and very little rest was
obtained at rest areas.

As for the truck stops: I knew them like the back of my clit. Like
anyone who travels for a living, I kept track of the best places to
pee. But I also kept track of the best places to give or get head, get
screwed against a wall, or do a set of pantyless knee-bends onto some
fresh driver dick.

Jesus, I loved the way those places smelled. The aroma of hot truck
tire permeated the parking lots and even the insides of the buildings.
All around me, I could sense rubber that was as hot as I was. The
rational part of me knew that what I was inhaling couldn’t possibly be
good for the environment. But I couldn’t control what it did to my
senses–nor, to be honest, would I have wanted to. It acted on me like
a drug, making my pulse race and my pussy throb; and I reasoned that
as long as I didn’t unnecessarily contribute to all this intoxicating
toxicity, it couldn’t hurt for me to enjoy it for all it was worth, as
I slid wetly out of the car in search of my next trucker ride.

By the time I hit 30 I had settled down a lot. I’d taken a job with a
local nonprofit, as I’d always wanted to, and I’d traded in my
road-weary Honda for a shiny new laminated bus pass. And though I
wasn’t exactly what you’d call a celibate, I was on a moderate fuck
diet of one or two poets/musicians/activists a month, rather than one
or two truck drivers a week. I kind of liked getting old.

But the scent of tire rubber always spelled sex to me. One whiff of a
delivery truck on a summer day could take my cunt straight back to my
favorite Interstate parking lot, and I’d have to head for the nearest
ladies’ room to do something about it.

The house I rented after I gave up the road life came with a small,
shady backyard. And one of the first things I’d done after moving in
was install a tire swing on the biggest oak. Recycling, you know. I
had total privacy back there, and that tire was my favorite place to
jill off. Gently swinging and underwear-free, with the evocative
perfume of the rubber wafting into my face, I’d let my fingers find my
groove slot, and I’d soon be pounding my ass up and down against the
thin air that tickled me from below.

So it wasn’t just my environmental conscience that made me an early
adopter when those sandals, belts, and other accessories manufactured
from recycled tire rubber came on the market. The only problem was
that I couldn’t wear, carry, or even look at these items without
getting instantly horny. This was a girl who could smell old tire
rubber from across the room.

It’s remarkable that I didn’t smell Mitch from across town, given what
he was wearing. When he walked into my neighborhood granola-crunchy
café, I practically creamed my favorite junkyard-rescued couch. The
dude had tire tread all over his slim, hipster body. From his sandals
all the way up to his fucking fedora. Did I mention creaming the

He had obviously crafted most of the outfit himself. (Believe me, if
tire-tread jeans and shirts and fedoras had been available through the
normal retail channels, your girl would have known about it.) Yep,
this guy had lovingly assembled slivers of used tread into a jersey
and a hat and an ass-glorious pair of 30×36 pants–how, I couldn’t
even imagine. The thought that he had personally created this costume
made me even hornier, and I could feel my bud twitching like a tiny,
excited animal. Even as he stood magnificently at the counter in his
ensemble, I could see him naked on a wooden floor, surrounded by
fragrant rubber, diligently tailoring his masterpiece. I wanted to
suck him and fuck him on all that rubber, in all that rubber, around
all that rubber.

I decided it was time to order another espresso.

“Your clothes smell great.” I couldn’t believe I’d blurted that out,
right at the counter. Well, yeah, maybe I could.

“Thank you.”

I wasn’t sure whether or not I should be surprised that *he* didn’t
look surprised by my abrupt compliment. Did he hear this stuff all
fucking day, from tire-crazed vixens in burnt-rubber heat? I had
thought this was a quiet town.

“I’m Mitch.”

As always, I was fascinated by the fact that the tire rubber, which
looked so black from a distance, revealed itself to be a handsome gray
when viewed up close.

“Hi, Mitch. I’m Ruth. Do you mind if I feel your tread?”

He smiled. “Why not. After all, I don’t have any biceps to speak of.”

He bent an elbow and offered me a forearm. I ran my finger, with slow
ecstasy, along one of the sensuous grooves. The soft, squishy sound of
my fingertip dragging along the rubber seemed thunderous in my ears,
and I could swear I felt his skin warming through the rubber, beneath
my touch. My panties were so damp I was sure they’d soon start
dripping like a percolator onto the black-and-white checkerboard

“There are empty seats back there where I’m set up,” I said, cocking
my head in the direction of my knapsack and my novel and the couch I’d
nearly anointed with my arousal. Thank god, I thought, for cafés that
are conveniently crowded in the front and attractively empty toward
the back.

“I have a thing for rubber,” I confessed after he’d settled into place
next to me on the couch, at my invitation. My gaze was locked on the
artificial six-pack created by the texture of his industrial-strength

“You don’t say,” Mitch replied affably. He took a sip of his coffee,
then he laughed. “I *knew* we had something in common.”

I’d been so fixated on his clothes that I hadn’t given enough
attention to his face. Now I saw how his brown eyes glowed at me from
beneath the brim of the fedora, and how his smile sang boyishly from
inside the confines of his Vandyke.

So I helped myself to two handfuls of tire-clad torso and kissed
Mitch, hard, breathing a cocktail of rubber and aftershave. Within
moments, we were giving new meaning to the term “rubberneckers.”

As our bodies heated up, I could smell the sweetness of his fresh
perspiration leeching the essence of the tires. I could imagine the
slick sensations he must be feeling across his skinny chest as the
warm rubber suckled his skin. I was making his entire body wet, the
way my own ravenous sex was wet, and the only thing I wanted in the
world was to jam his cock inside me while our senses snaked together
in a rubber-infused fog of pleasure.

He had somehow sewn a zipper into the front of his pants, and I was on
it, with little concern for the fact that we were, technically, in a
public place. I hadn’t done anything this brash since my I-95 days;
but I was officially a woman out of control at this point. And I
wasn’t hearing any complaints from Mitch.

Whenever time constraints force me to choose between eating and being
eaten, I’ll usually vote to have my pussy tongued till I scream. But
I’d known from the moment I first saw Mitch that I wanted to snack on
his dick, to lick along the length of it like my saliva was a dribble
of mustard and his cock a sizzling hot-dog, protruding
trigonometrically from a charcoal-tinted rubber roll.

As I went down on him, it made me feel ticklish to sense the contrast
between his naked flesh–so delicate yet so rigid–and the rugged
lewdness of the pants. The treads looked like cartoonishly exaggerated
corduroy wales, and I gripped them for stability as my head bobbed and
kissed and nurtured its way up and down the pale, stiff prize. He was
sensitive, and he cooed for me like a twee-pop singer as I brought him
closer, moment by delicious moment, to delivering a coffeeless cream
into my mouth.

“Are you guys done with your drinks?”

Frankly, I was glad we’d been thrown out right after Mitch’s pretty
dick exploded for me, because the café was beginning to cramp my
style. I wanted to sprawl naked for him on my futon, to feel him roll
softly over me in his tire treads, to sense the chemistry of flesh and
rubber fusing me to him and melting my entire body into Campbell’s
cream of cunt soup. While Mitch glanced backwards into the place we’d
been ejected from, I was looking forward to all of this.

I may be an unapologetically promiscuous adventurer, but it’s a quaint
social nicety of mine that if I bring a boy home to fuck him silly, I
make a point of exchanging full names. After the café, it felt a bit
anticlimactic; but a rule is a rule.

“I should tell you that my birth certificate says ‘Ruth Obergard,'” I
volunteered a little shyly, just as we were crossing under the local
I-95 overpass.

“Mitchell Lynne,” he responded, extending a handshake hand with mock formality.

We walked on quietly. “My Michelin Man,” I thought inanely. I laughed
without explaining, and he seemed to like that.

I’d been jonesing for the futon, but it was a beautiful day, and so I
decided to introduce Mitch to my tire swing first. He sat for me
there, his cock proud as a stick shift in its glossy black condom, and
I peeled down my juice-stained panties and straddled him. Under my
flimsy skirt, my naked thighs rode a tarmac of cheeky rubber. I loved
feeling how it was sort of hard and soft at the same time when I
pressed into it.

Once I was sure our positions were stable, I let myself go wild on
him. As my flesh slapped down more and more frantically, I could no
longer tell where Mitch’s pants ended and the tire swing began. All I
knew was that rubber kissed my soft ass with every thrust of my hips.
And while our combined momentum made the swing move faster than I was
used to, my crazy snatch gushed onto the rubber-sheathed prick and the
rubber-clothed lap. When Mitch released his come and daintily touched
my clit, the little backyard spun around us faster than
tractor-trailer wheels.

In my bedroom, Mitch was soft in his rubber pants. So he simply rolled
over and over me, like I’d imagined, and his kind eyes watched my face
as I fucked myself beneath him–relishing his texture, absorbing his
smell, practically crying because I had what I craved and craved what
I had. I came like a romantic–now actually sobbing with joy–and I
fell asleep beneath a blanket of masculine rubber.

For all those years, I had come again and again on the Interstate.
Now, at last, the Interstate had come home to me.

*And I didn’t even need a fucking car.*

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