This is part 2 of the "Erotica Made to Order" series. The muse in question requested that her name not be mentioned here.
Erotica Made to Order 02: An Arrangement of Sorts
John's voice on the phone was cool and distant. "I'm sorry to hear that," he intoned. This was his go-to response whenever Carol brought him bad news. No matter the severity or circumstance, his response was nearly always the same- she had lost a diamond earring; the soufflé had fallen; their son had been kicked out of another private school. He was sorry to hear it.
It was as if he had spent years training himself to say it without thinking, a kind of muscle memory that allowed him to elicit the minimal amount of required sympathy but still leave his mind free to think about something else at the same time.
But that was John, always there but never there.
While his reply was not surprising to Carol in any way, she had hoped that this situation warranted a bit of genuine concern or even, though she knew it was too much to ask, some genuine concern for the woman who was, after all, his wife of more than three decades.
The long grey Mercedes lay at the side of the nameless highway, smoke billowing from under her hood. The weak light of the winter sun was fading fast, and before too long she would be very cold and very lost.
The obvious concern she had for her safety didn't seem to concern him at the moment. This was the evening of the big year-end gala for John's firm, after all, and she was already an hour late meeting him there. His tone implied that he was waiting for an apology from her.
"On any other night, I would gladly slide by to pick you up," he began cautiously. "But I couldn't possibly leave until after Roger's speech. You know that."
"What am I supposed to do then?"
"People are taking their seats, Carol," he said. His voice sounded as though had covered his mouth with his hand so no one could lip-read his desperation. "Do you have any idea what this looks like?"
"John, do you even-"
"Carol, I have to go. Call our service. They'll have somebody out there in twenty minutes."
She tried to interrupt, to tell him that she already had called the service and the wait time was more like three hours or more due to a convention or some such bother downtown. She got half a sentence out before she realized that he had already hung up. She paged through her contacts looking for someone else she might be able to rely upon to rescue her tonight, but the battery indicator fluttered a few times like a ham actor at the end of a Shakespeare play and, like her car, suddenly died.
At this moment, as if some karmic comedian in the heavens decided this would be a good time to start snowing, she felt a flake or two fall on her eyelashes. Reaching up to her hair, a few more melted on her hand. She wondered for a moment what the white flakes looked like atop her auburn hair with that recently acquired shock of grey. John liked to refer to it as her "racing stripe." Though he hadn't really intended to make her self-conscious about it, talking about her like a car did make her feel strangely about getting older. Was she a classic whose value only increased with each passing year or was she a rapidly depreciating model soon to be replaced with a newer, shinier one?
She shook her head to rid her mind of the idea. She buttoned her long black woolen coat, tightened her lips in concentration, and took stock of her predicament. With a flick of her key-fob she locked her wounded beast and turned to the nearest source of light.
From this distance (a mile? three miles?) it was impossible to tell whether she had pinned her hopes for salvation on a humble rest stop, a gas station, or some roadside murder factory where cult members grind up passers by and sell them at a nearby diner. She paused for a moment to listen intently but could hear no screams of abject horror coming from the glow ahead. This she interpreted as a sign of good fortune.
The snow was coming down harder now, and she could feel the flakes embedding into the flesh on the back of her slender neck and melting there. She wasn't really dressed for the occasion. And yet there she was, trudging along the shoulder of a busy highway at night in a pair of heels that were never intended to walk in for more than a few yards.
They had been John's favorite during the early years when he pretended to notice this sort of thing. They were made of a flesh tone patent leather with a curved heel and pointy toe that had been popular years ago but had only recently become fashionable again.
She wondered, as she tried not to sprain her ankles on the uneven ground, whether she wore them to remind him of how he used to feel about her or to remind herself of how she used to feel.
None of it mattered now, of course, but dwelling on this seemed like a good idea when her only other option was to think about the cold, the embarrassment, and the painful death that awaited her if one of those hulking trucks passed just a few inches closer.
After what seemed like an hour or more, she found herself in the center of the dome of light on the highway. She looked up at the giant illuminated sign. TranspoUSA Truck Plaza.
In the haze of snow the outline of the facility looked more like a row of shacks, a series of small buildings stuck together like a mobile home with dozens of additions and extensions. Clearly, she thought to herself, fate had delivered her to the murder factory.
But she couldn't stand out there in the cold indefinitely, and there didn't seem like another workable option for her. At the very least, she'd have to wait there for the car service to find her in a few hours or, more likely, in the morning.
As she pushed through the smeary glass doors, the rush of warm air made her woozy for a moment. Thanks to a thick layer of condensation on her glasses, she could barely see.
To the handful of men standing around the counter chatting, she must have looked like a character from a bad fish-out-of-water movie as she carefully peeled off her coat and folded it over her arm. Underneath, she had on the sleek black evening gown she had selected for the gala. So much for fitting in.
Unsure what to do next, she sought out the ladies room. She reached to the nearest wall to switch on the lights and, to add one more layer of horror to her evening, she found that they did not work. From the smell wafting up from the stalls, it seemed like janitorial neglect might be at play here- probably due to the ratio of women to men at an establishment such as this, she assumed.
She spun around and, when she was reasonably sure the other truck stop denizens were no longer watching her, she quickly snuck through the door to the men's room and sought out a stall. Certainly, this was not much cleaner, but at least it had light.
Hanging her coat on the peg, she spread toilet paper over the toilet lid and carefully took a seat.
After sitting there for some time listening to the chatter outside, it occurred to her that she didn't even need to use the bathroom after all. She just wanted a place to hide, to regroup. Through the crack in the stall door she could see a hint of herself int he long dingy mirror. Her hair was a mess. The long curvy curls she had spent so long creating had fallen flat against her face. She decided not to strain to see any more. Too depressing.
It had been years, maybe decades, since she had surreptitiously used a men's room. There was a certain thrill to it. For what she could tell, she was alone, but she imagined men sitting in the adjacent stalls or at the urinals with their penises in their rough hands. She smiled slightly thinking about what they might say if they found her here, the strangely dressed lady hiding where she shouldn't be. She thought about what they might do, and the notion sent a pleasant shock through her body.
This is when she noticed it, a three inch wide hole in the side of her stall. The rough metal edges of it were covered in silver tape. She had heard about these things but never believed it could be real. It had to be a joke.
The door opened. She lifted her feet slightly so her womanly feet would not give her away.
She listened intently as the stranger opened the door to the stall next to her. She could see just a hint of his body as he unzipped his stained jeans, pulled out his cock and began pissing in the toilet. The sound of it filled the room. She wondered if he could see enough of her to realize she didn't belong.
She heard the mystery man flush. Good, she thought. She closed her eyes and counted the seconds until he left her alone.
But after some time she realized that she hadn't heard the sounds she expected- the zipping up, the stall door, his exit. She carefully opened her eyes. Through the hole in the stall she noticed something coming through the hole, a man's penis.
Mortified, she tried to think of an escape plan. If she was quiet, she might be able to leave, she thought. Once outside, though, what would she do about the phalanx of truckers waiting for her there? And even if she got away from them, what then?
It was thicker than John's, veiny and uncircumcised. She tried not to think about the slab of man flesh that hung before her, but she couldn't deny the odd attraction she felt. It seemed strong, powerful.
Against all intuition, she reached out one manicured finger and touched the tip. The skin reacted to her touch. With a bit more confidence she grasped the shaft and rubbed the head with her thumb. Through the hole in the stall she could see the balls tighten. She liked the direct reaction. She gently stroked the shaft and watched it grow in her hand. With the soft grunting on the other side cheering her on, she became more brazen and rougher with the stranger's cock in her hands. He seemed to like that very much. She noticed his hands gripping tightly to the top of the stall.
Her mind raced. The danger of the situation soon became crowded out by a rush of emotions. Looking at the head of his cock pulsating in her hand, she became overwhelmed with the need to make him cum. She opened her mouth wide and let her hot breath fall on the shaft. She heard a moan of appreciation in response. The idea of kissing the head intrigued her. She leaned forward and puckered her lips but the urge to have him in her mouth took over. She parted her lips and took him in as best she could. She could only manage a few inches at first but after a while her jaw relaxed and her throat opened up. This is when the stranger in the other stall stopped trying to be quiet.
