On the Road to Vegas

Marion was a tall woman: 5 foot eight inches. She had a lithe body. It moved like a panther suckled by snake, coiled, ready to strike at any minute. It made her sexually desirable. The aphrodisiac she offered was confusion: did a man want to dominate or be dominated by her? A man moved toward her with anger mixed with lust mixed with light-headedness.

Paul was equally tall...but he seemed much shorter. This effect was a product of his mass. Shoulders, neck, hips, buttocks and legs were fat-less. Each muscle curved into another, like a series of waves swelling into one another during a Atlantic storm. When she rode him, she rode a squall. Top or bottom, it didn't make much difference.

The night they died, she was on top, seated on him, He was driving the car at 90 miles an hour. She was stuck his lap, her skirt thrown high over her back and shoulders, her taut belly tight against the driving wheel, her hands covering his. His unfastened pants were down around his knees. He looked at the dashboard, smiled as he remembered the speedometer had hit 80 exactly when he had entered her. They rode harshly along the cement road clashing against each other it seemed halfway to Vegas. The truck came at them at the moment of climax. She ordered him to continue. He obeyed.

The fireball could be seen at a distance of twenty miles.