Will Anna’s adulterous fantasies become a reality? When a seemingly normal routine merges into an erotic adventure, Anna’s sex life takes a very naughty turn… right onto Exit 13 to Vandehei.
All characters engaging in sexual relationships or activities are 18 years old or older.
This story is completely fictional. Any character likenesses to gas station attendants are accidental.
I started stopping at the Sinclair gas station in Cheyenne while I maintained a LDR with this amazing man from Colorado. The station is little over half way to my destination and I usually hop out to stretch my legs or use the restroom. I pull through that long Wyoming stretch — setting my cruise control at a languid 67mph, breathing a sigh of relief when I finally make it to I-25.
I always arrive around the same time on the designated Fridays I go see the boyfriend — typically between 5:30 and 6:30PM, sometimes later, depending on how needy my students are feeling after school. Thursday evenings I pack up my graduate work and my laundry to load into the car while preparing my overnight bag to throw into the passenger seat before I leave for school.
These Fridays are special. I know I’ll see my man in a few hours and I can get away from the stress of the school system during our rendezvous weekends. On these particular Fridays I often forgo my bra; the secret feeling of my shirt brushing across my nipples reminds me of the satisfying sex I’ll be having in a few short hours. By the time I leave for Colorado I’m already horny.
The commute is easy and relaxing; I pop on an audio book and let the voices of story carry me through the miles. I’m listening to Junot Diaz tell me how to ruin relationships and as he describes the glorious fucking of a man in pain, I fade into the drive down Highway 85. Somewhere along the miles of pavement and corn fields, I get lost in thought.
The Sinclair station is nearly always slow — especially in the winter months. Sometimes I stop in for gas, other times for coffee or hot cocoa. I’m not sure when I started noticing him, the youngish looking gas station attendant. But he is there. Every single Friday night. As the Sinclair stop became a monthly routine, so did our cursory human interactions. They began, of course, strictly business. Always no nonsense, he never engages in strained small talk. I love it. It’s a quick exchange and back on I-25 south. During those winter months I began looking for occasion to stop and talk to him. Whatever the reason, I began to feel those tell-tale tingles in my stomach and in my finger-tips.
I don’t need gas… or to urinate. I could get a coffee… but I’ll be up all night. Okay. Run to the bathroom and get a hot cocoa.
Why the fuck are we even worrying about this? EEP! He’s here tonight!
“Anything else for you?”
“Nope. That’s all, thanks!” I smile brightly. He does not.
With his dark hair, a two/three on the sides and a bit longer on top, he isn’t the standard of sexy. Average height, average build, and I imagine a small college beer-drinking belly under his uniform collared shirt. He has this ridiculous tribal tattoo under his sleeve and I find myself wondering if he has any other tattoos under his well-worn but clean uniform. He has a kind voice and intense, dark eyes. Eyes I want to get lost in while lying naked in bed. He strikes me as the type that might browse (maybe even occasionally post on) 4Chan or purchase the parts of AR-15s to assemble and modify on his down time. As an assumed Wyoming resident, he is not my typical man of interest. He is in stark opposition to the dark snack (mi novio guapo) I am traveling to see in Colorado.
The interactions are always similar — a half smile or nod of acknowledgement, an exchange of short words and money. I wish him an excellent evening or a fabulous night and leave feeling hornier than before.
The space of the Sinclair station is small and awkward to maneuver around. When the door dings open and my attendant stands alert, he seems to fill the small space with his presence. The air crackles alive and I retreat to the ladies’ room for a moment while ortaköy escort I collect myself.
Does he recognize me this time? Fuck. Why do I care?
“Thank you, kindly.” I give my station attendant a cheeky grin and attempt to make eye contact.
“Yep. You, too.” He does not look up. His hair nearly brushes his eyelids while he looks down at the register. I am compelled to intimately brush the hair from his eyes but, instead, I walk out. Did I imagine the feeling of eyes following me to my car?
I am now looking forward to these stops at the Sinclair in Cheyenne. I sometimes think about my station attendant outside my secret stops and even go out of my way on a Sunday to drop in over the course home. As I pull into the station, my stomach flutters and I wonder if he is working. The door dings open and I deflate momentarily. An overly chatty woman takes my money and wishes me safe travels.
Only Fridays. Duly noted.
It may be the familiarity of the space and time; the ‘every other Friday’ routine. He is faithfully there. Oftentimes I go into the bathroom to stretch my legs, tight from the gym and the long car ride. I put up my wavy, dark hair to keep it from whipping in the wind and when necessary, I take off my bra while thinking about fucking my Colorado lover. I don’t recall the exact evening my nipples started hardening into conspicuous pebbles as I made my way to the check out. I wonder if it was the knowledge that I’d be spending hours in bed with my lover that initially caused the tightening of my pussy and the tingling in my fingers. Was it Junot Diaz’s Dominican Spanish and candid descriptions of infidelity? Maybe I was ovulating — I don’t know. In the months I’ve been stopping here, when did I start wondering what my station attendant smelled like? Tasted like. Felt like.
Walking in tonight felt different. Did I imagine this or did my attendant perk up? An upturn of eyebrows? The brightening of eyes? A lingering look?
He looks into my soft, blue eyes for longer than a moment and as I smile back, I wonder if he knows my nipples are hard because I am speculating on the salt of his skin. How will it taste under my traveling tongue? I imagine at times, that I am the only customer to arrive for hours — a brief respite of sunshine and that my station attendant wonders on which Friday I might appear — like a prickling gust of wind or the licking of hot sunrays in the summer. That he, too, creates wild fantasies in his mind of fucking on our Fridays.
I look my youngish station clerk in his eyes and allow my gaze to drop, for a moment, below his belt. I bite my full, pink lips and let my eyes slowly travel back to his face, lingering for a moment on his mouth before returning eye contact. I smile brightly. This time he smiles back.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, please. I think…” I drop my eyes demurely down — and back to his face, “I dropped my earring into the sink and I didn’t know if there was a way to — maybe — fish it out or something…” His face grows concerned and he thinks for a moment. His eyes flicker to my earlobes, noticing dangling pieces in both ears. He cocks his eyebrow as a wide grin spreads across his face. I smile conspiratorially back with a shrug.
“You know, I think I can help you… let me run to the back for a wrench and some gloves.”
As he leaves the room, I feel myself getting wet. My pulse quickens and my stomach is filled with tightened tingles that travel all the way through to my pussy lips. He quickly returns with a bucket, gloves, and a wrench.
“Thank you so much. I really appreciate this. You. I’m such a spaz sometimes.”
“Of course.” He smiles, “It’s my pleasure.”
I follow him into the dingy Sinclair bathroom and lean over the sink, peering down into the drain. My back is arched and I know my jeans are hugging the curves of my ass. My station clerk moves directly behind me as he places his hands on either side of the sink. I look up; we make eye contact through the streaked, rusty mirror and I have never been so turned on in my life.
A breath catches in my otele gelen escort throat. My pulse races and I grind my ass, a firm round peach, against the cock thickening beneath his faded, black slacks. His hands snake around my waist and I lean into him — breathing into his cool, freshly washed hands that travel up my thread-bare I Heart Public Schools t-shirt to cup my breasts. He smiles when he feels my unencumbered breasts.
I lift my hands to grab his hair and give him greater access to my tits. He tweaks and palms my nipples while sucking on my earring-laden lobe. He grinds into me hard.
“I found your earring, you naughty little slut.” I flush under his gaze but do not drop my eyes looking into his from the mirror.
He runs his hands back down to my waist, taking his time, feeling my stomach and my sides, playing along the edges of my dark-washed jeans. Slowly… deliberately, he turns me around and looks into my eyes. A smile twinkles in my crinkled lids.
“I’ve wanted this — you — for months,” I breathe.
He growls in response and covers his mouth with mine. The heady scent of over-night service working and gas penetrate my senses and I note that he tastes like mint and cigarettes. He takes my hand, guides it onto his hard cock and it is my turn to growl. Kissing down my neck and lifting my t-shirt for full access to my breasts, he smiles.
“I know. You come in here every Friday, teasing me with these.” He bends and takes a hard nipple into his mouth. I brace myself against the sink as he feasts on my tits and nibbles on my neck and collar bone. As he finally slips off my shirt, he takes a step back to drink in my naked chest. He smiles broadly and leans in to trace his tongue along my tits. I feel the pebbled tingles from my harden nipples all the way to my toes.
He kneels on the ground in front of me, his tongue trailing down my stomach, leaving bursts of cool air to tickle the moisture that follows his teasing. His hands reach up to tweak my nipples and I gasp. His fingers trail back down the sides of my stomach and play along the edges of my jeans. He looks up at me and grins, his teeth brushing against the button of my pants.
“Let me taste your pussy.”
Who am I to deny a man what he wants?
I hardly recognize the throaty “Yes” from my mouth as my station attendant thumbs the button open and draws my zipper down. My clit throbs in anticipation. He slides down my jeans and I step out of them, standing in the bright lights of the Sinclair bathroom. Lacey, light blue cheekies looking positively drenched against my pussy; juxtaposed perfectly against the smoothness of my pale skin.
I brace my back against the wall as he kisses his way down my stomach, dragging his finger nails against the backs of my thighs and cupping my ass. He hooks his fingers into the sides of my panties and drags them down my legs. The cold air hits my wet pussy lips and I feel a slight tremor. My station attendant is kneeling before me and looks up into my eyes. Desire is etched on his face. He buries his nose into my pussy and breathes in my scent.
“Oh fuck yes.” He growls.
My lips open to him as he gently raises one leg over his shoulder and begins to tease me.
First he lets just his breath tickle the smooth wetness of my snatch. The nips and licks that follow along the sides of my pussy lips drive me wild. I squirm and try to guide his teasing tongue to my swollen clit but he only smiles into my wetness while he continues to tease. My heady scent fills the room and
“You fucking tease.” I gasp out as he lays one drawn out lick along the length of my cunt. He stops for a moment on my nubbin and my legs tremble. Finally. Thank God. He dives into my drenched pussy with his face; his nose grinding against my clit as he laps at the wetness. My juices catch on his chin and drip down my legs. As his expert tongue snakes back to my needy clit, he slips one… two fingers into my waiting snatch.
Looking up he says, “You taste like heaven. Savory and perfect heaven.”
His expert fingers play a waltz in my cunt while his tongue circles slowly all otele gelen escort around and along my clit. I feel the build of an orgasm…
I realize the speed limit is back down to 65 and I am coming fast onto I-25. Highway 85 is at an end and I have missed twenty-two minutes of my book. I am emphatically horny. I merge onto I-25 and make my way towards Cheyenne. Exit 13 to Vandehei is muscle memory by now. The billboard on the side of the highway reads “Thirsty?” Why yes, yes I am. “Stop at Sinclairs!” I smile broadly.
It’s been two months — eight Fridays — since my last Sinclair stop. I intentionally left town today without getting gas — telling myself I need a legitimate reason to stop. In the past two months mi novio guapo flew home to meet my parents. We are discussing moving in together; buying a house, having a child. Yet, I am irrationally nervous as I approach Exit 13 to Vandehei. When I walk into the building, my station attendant is with a customer so I pop into the bathroom.
It is April 20th and the bathroom smells like disinfectant and cached Northern Lights — the weed must have been laced with something because I’m getting hornier by the second. As I move to the sink, I look down to see the remnants of cached green on the floor and I smile. Again, I am braless and my nipples pebble; my pussy aches with need while I wash my hands and look into the streaked, rusty mirror recalling the naughty fantasy starring my favorite station attendant.
My station clerk looks up at me and his eyes brighten with recognition; he smiles. A smile!?
I smile widely back.
“I haven’t seen you in like… a millennia!” I chirp out. He is so fucking cute. I’m such a fucking spaz.
“I know. It has been awhile.” He replies, “I’ve been keeping busy… ah… taking classes. I recently went back to school.” My pulse starts to quicken. Are we engaging in *small talk*? This never happens.
“Oh, excellent! What are you getting your degree in?” Fuck, I want to taste the salt of your sweat.
“Ah… just finishing my gen eds for now. What about you? *pause* I mean… are you in classes or anything?” He is so young — I am thirty.
“Yes, actually. I am finishing a master’s degree.”
He is taken aback. He must realize I am not in my early twenties. He quickly recovers, “In what?”
“Literature and composition. I’m a school teacher.” I grin and crinkle my eyes.
He grins back mischievously. “You’re an English teacher, huh?”
“Yep. So all the kiddos hate me.” Kiddos? Good god. Could I sound more like a fucking prude? Ask his name… get his number. Tell him you want to ride his fucking cock.
“Ha! So where ya heading to?” A brief moment of panic. I can’t tell him I’m visiting my boyfriend.
“Ahh. Heading to Loveland. Shopping. How are your classes?” I ask. His response is an excited gushing of gibberish — he is nervous! And a lit major! My Heart!
“So are you partaking in any recreational activities in Colorado?” He asks with a twinkle in his eye. What a fucking cutie.
“Always.” I reply, “Just don’t tell my students.” I add with a wink.
“I didn’t catch your name.” He wants to know my name. EEP! I am melting. This is a far cry from the cursory interactions of the winter months.
“Anna… and you are…Josh!” I add, gesturing to the name tag I hadn’t noticed before.
He reaches out his hand for me to take. They are hard and calloused from work but he shakes my hand with a sweet tenderness. I linger for a brief moment. The tiny Sinclair gas station seems to fill with tension. The space is suddenly tight and Josh’s presence spills into every corner. I breathe into the tension and fill my lungs with sexual energy. Suddenly feeling warm and clumsy, I release his hand.
A beat of silence. I look up at him with questioning eyes and my pussy tightens… clenches. My heart is racing. I breathe out audibly.
“See you around… and good luck with your classes.”
“Hey. You too.” I smile and crinkle my nose this time. He smiles back with imploring eyes and I know I could go back and ask for more but I leave. Fuck. It will be two more Fridays until I stop at my Sinclair’s again. Maybe next time I will ask his name. I spend the next 40 minutes wondering if he will wash his hands before he sinks his fingers into my drenched pussy. Wondering if his cock will choke me down my throat.