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.
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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 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.
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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."
