Nashville Nymph: Bare Breasts and Backpacker Bunks
The Great American Daddy Hunt: 50 States, 50 Daddies, 50 Weeks. A Sabbatical Sex Scorecard for a Rebellious College Girl.
This erotic post is intended as entertainment only for mature audiences. Reader discretion advised. Please simply & kindly skip it if it offends you. Thank you so much! Hugs!
I write erotica novels & short stories. I also publish handbooks on how to train us, young women, for sex and share my sex confessions as a spermivore, spermaholic, and submissive teen (18+) slut. Yes, a slut! And I’m proud of it! Sex is good, and girls who love sex shouldn’t have to hide and pretend to be “pure.” Sex is pure! And naked skin is natural. #FreeTheNipple #FreeThePussy
This short story is part of The Great American Daddy Hunt: 50 States, 50 Daddies, 50 Weeks. A Sabbatical Sex Scorecard for a Rebellious College Girl. I hope your cock (or pussy) will enjoy it!
The Nashville air hit Cassy like a wall of steam as she stepped off the Greyhound, the July heat wrapping around her body and immediately dampening her already-wrinkled tank top. She squinted against the glare of Tennessee sunshine, her long blonde ponytail swinging as she made her way to retrieve her backpack from the luggage compartment. Freedom tasted sweet on her tongue — sweeter than the barbecue sauce that had been smeared across her back just twenty-four hours ago in Missouri.
She hefted her backpack onto her shoulders, wincing as the straps pressed against tender skin still marked by Vernon's rough handling. The weight of everything she owned for her year-long journey settled against her spine like a reminder of her newfound independence.
A smile played across her lips as she mentally tallied her Missouri accomplishments. First blowjob? Check. Fucked by a man old enough to be her grandfather? Check. Serviced a massive black cock in the state where everything was supposedly big? Double check. Spent hours naked in a stranger's house just because an old man enjoyed the view? Show-Me State indeed.
"Not bad for day one." She adjusted her backpack and stepped into the stream of travelers flowing through the station.
The Nashville bus terminal buzzed with activity — country music twanged through speakers mounted near the ceiling, competing with announcements of arrivals and departures. Cowboy boots clicked against the linoleum floors, and the air smelled of diesel fumes, fast food, and perfume. Cassy breathed it all in, savoring the anonymity of being just another face in the crowd.
The oppressive humidity wrapped around her like a blanket as she consulted Google Maps. The Grand Ole Opry was her first destination — a nod to her mother's obsession with that "Nashville" TV show she'd binge-watched for years. The irony wasn't lost on Cassy that her first stop was something her mother would approve of, even as she rebelled in ways that would give Eleanor Montgomery a heart attack.
She'd walked three blocks when her phone rang with her mother's distinctive chime. Cassy stared at the screen, watching it vibrate in her palm for five full rings before declining the call and continuing her walk. Two minutes later, the text notification sound pinged.
"Cassidy, your father is in St. Louis right now. He took the first flight out this morning. Where are you staying?"
Her father was in Missouri? The knowledge sent a surge of conflicting emotions through her — concern that she'd worried them enough to make her father actually fly somewhere, satisfaction that she'd successfully disrupted their controlling routine, and alarm that they were physically hunting her down.
Another text arrived before she could process the first one.
"We spoke to the police. Please just let us know you're okay."
"Jesus fucking Christ!" Her words turned the heads of a pair of elderly women passing by, their faces pinched with disapproval. Cassy couldn't bring herself to care. "I'm twenty-one years old!"
Her fingers stabbed at the screen, typing furiously.
"I'm fine. I'm not in Missouri anymore. Stop treating me like I'm 12."
She hit send, then immediately followed with another livid text message.
"And don't involve the police. That's insane. I'm an adult."
The response came almost immediately.
"Where are you? Dad can come get you."
The presumption that she needed rescuing made her blood boil. She quickly typed back.
"No. Continuing trip as planned. I'll check in so you know I'm alive."
She turned off notifications for her mother's contact and stuffed the phone into her backpack. The Grand Ole Opry loomed ahead, its impressive façade looking just like in the TV show her mother swooned over. Cassy's steps slowed as she approached, her rebellious mind already concocting ways to make this innocent tourist spot part of her defiance.
A melody slipped from her lips, a song from Juliette Barnes, her mother's least favorite character on "Nashville." The fictional bad-girl country star had always resonated with Cassy far more than the show's supposedly virtuous protagonists.
Humming to herself, she found strength in the lyrics, as if they were her personal anthem. "Come hell, come high water; You push on me I'm going to push back harder; I got a whole lot more than a little bit left." Her conservative parents had always hated Juliette's character — the sexual freedom, the defiance of authority, the refusal to be controlled. No wonder Cassy had secretly idolized her.
She pulled out her phone and posed in front of the Grand Ole Opry sign, snapping a selfie with her blonde hair gleaming in the afternoon sun. Her finger hovered over the Instagram share button, then paused. Her parents were literally hunting her down in Missouri based on the location tag from her last post. She wasn't going to make that mistake again.
"Not until I've left Nashville." She saved the photo to her camera roll instead. She'd post it when she was already gone, a breadcrumb for her parents to follow when she was safely out of reach.
The heat pressed down on her as she adjusted her backpack once more and continued walking, her platform sandals clicking against the pavement. Each step carried her further from the scared girl who'd boarded a bus in Kansas and closer to the woman she was determined to become — one state, and one old man, at a time.
Backpacker's Buffet: Juicy Thighs & Tender Cunt on Hostel Display
The Country Music Hall of Fame loomed before Cassy like a modern cathedral to twang and heartbreak, its windows reflecting the afternoon sun in golden ripples. Her backpack, heavy with everything she owned, had ceased to be a burden and become more like a turtle's shell — a home she carried with her, a symbol of her new nomadic freedom. Inside, the air conditioning raised goosebumps on her arms after the oppressive heat outside, and the exhibits blurred together in a haze of rhinestones, vintage guitars, and sepia-toned photographs of legends whose names her father had reverently spoken around their Kansas dinner table.
By late afternoon, she'd wandered through the Johnny Cash Museum, her feet beginning to ache in her platform sandals. Her backpack announced "POOR TOURIST" as clearly as if she'd worn a flashing neon sign, but she didn't care. The weight against her shoulders and the occasional curious glances from locals only reinforced her sense of adventure.
Her body, however, was beginning to register complaints from the previous day's activities. Muscles she hadn't known existed throbbed with a dull ache — evidence of Vernon's and Jerome's enthusiastic sexual education. Combined with hours of walking Nashville's streets in the July heat, the toll left her eyelids heavy and her steps dragging as the sun began its descent.
"I need to find somewhere to crash." She pulled out her phone to search for nearby hostels. Her father's credit card remained untouched in her wallet — a last resort she was determined not to use.
The Music City Nashborough Hostel appeared on her map, just fifteen minutes away. With a posted rate of $28 per night for a dormitory bed, it perfectly fit her budget and her newfound philosophy of unfiltered experiences.
The hostel occupied a converted Victorian house, its paint faded by countless Tennessee summers. Inside, the reception area buzzed with the international murmur of backpackers comparing notes on local bars and attractions. Cassy paid for one night with cash and followed the receptionist's directions to the dormitory on the second floor.
The dormitory door swung open to reveal a long room lined with metal-framed bunk beds, each separated from the next by just enough space to squeeze through sideways. Warm, stale air carried the mingled scents of backpacker essentials — deodorant struggling against its limits, laundry soap, and the distinctive chemical sweetness of dry shampoo. Cassy stood in the doorway, her heavy eyelids taking in the scene: about twenty beds, half of them occupied by young travelers unpacking, reading, or tapping at phone screens. The unexpected element was the mixture of genders — women hanging sports bras from upper bunks to dry, men in various states of undress lounging on lower ones, all sharing the space with the casual indifference of youth on the road.
She shuffled inside, fatigue making her movements sluggish. The receptionist had assigned her bed #14, an upper bunk near the center of the room. Two college-aged guys looked up from their phones as she passed, their eyes tracking her progress. One nudged the other, a gesture Cassy caught in her peripheral vision but was too exhausted to analyze.