Rest Stop Bull

Author's note:

I think that the best part of a first-time cuckold story like this is often in the build-up, as the characters slowly awaken to the thrilling dynamics at play. So with that in mind, this story takes a little while to reach the ultimate payoff. In fact, I'll warn you that it will not happen in this chapter. For that, read on to the next chapter. But I think that if you are into this kind of story, the slow burn will be worth it and this chapter will include plenty to rev the engine. I hope so, at least! I also wanted to mention that story was inspired by Your Cute Wife's excellent Tumblr. That's all from me. Please drop a rating and a review if you enjoy.

I ease my pick-up truck into the rest stop parking lot. I live just one more exit down the highway, but I can't make it: I've just got to piss too bad. The lot's crowded, but I manage to find a spot up near the entrance. I ease the truck in and walk calmly to the bathroom. I've been here a thousand times and know exactly where it is.

I unzip at the urinal and let fly a thick stream. I stand an inch or two back to avoid any splash from the rear of the urinal. That position might leave me a bit... exposed, but I don't mind. I've got nothing to hide. I sigh contentedly as the tension drains out through the end of my cock.

I notice the man next to me. The bathroom's pretty full, and there's no room for the one-urinal buffer that men try to leave when possible. This guy next to me is pressed up close between the dividers, his shoulders almost touching the flushing handle, he's so close to the porcelain.

I try not to make surface-level judgments about people, but for some reason, I feel that with one glance at him -- the hunched posture, the self-conscious way of doing his hair, the too-new rustic-chic sweater, not to mention the khakis -- I can fill in most of his story. You know the type just as well as I do: Late 20s, went to a leafy, prestigious college, probably works at some hotshot startup where he spends all day at a computer. He's out here in the country for a bachelor's party getaway or a business retreat or some such nonsense. There's a chance I'm relying on too many stereotypes, but I think I've got this one pretty well pegged. Makes me smile.

I'm a good six inches taller than the guy, and from my vantage high above the dividers I can see one reason why everything about him is so self-consciously constructed: Between his right thumb and forefinger he's jiggling one of the smallest flaccid cocks I've ever seen. Couldn't be more than two inches long from what I see in my stolen glance. The poor fuck.

He notices me looking. I can tell he's spooked, and he instinctively turns up to me, trying on a look of defiant annoyance. I'm still smiling from my musings, and I look back calmly and confidently. As if in challenge, he makes a show of glancing down and getting a good look at my large member. Soft, it still takes me three fingers and a thumb to hold it straight. I've always thought it looked like a sausage you'd get at a ballpark with peppers and onions. I don't have to wonder what he makes of it. We make eye contact again. The fight is gone from his eyes.

We finish and flush at the same time. He holds one hand awkwardly over his groin as we walk toward the row of sinks, but he can't hide the wet spot from the urinal splashback. Never stand too close, kiddos.

He chooses a sink as far away from mine as possible. I shake my head and focus on washing my hands. When I look up again, he's gone.

I forget about the College-Type and make for the exit before deciding to hit the Starbucks for a quick pick-me-up. As usual, there's a line, about 10 deep, but these things move fast, and I'm in no hurry now that I've pissed. Something about pissing when you've been holding it in for a while -- the world just seems a bit happier.

I watch the crowd surge in and out of the rest stop entrance while I wait. The line seems to be taking a bit longer than usual. I look ahead to check the holdup, and I notice College-Type two spots before me in line. He's engrossed in whatever's on his phone, but he's standing next to a striking young woman.

She's very attractive, if a bit distracted and discombobulated. Slender but with enough curves to make you look twice. Dirty blond hair, about shoulder length but it's pulled up in a haphazard ponytail. She fills out her blue jeans, not scandalously tight, but tight enough. She's also wearing a boutique rustic-style sweater, but it works much better on her than the college boy. On a purely superficial level, this woman is hitting all my buttons, and after thinking back to what I learned in the bathroom... well, this is all suddenly a lot more interesting.

From the way College-Type is standing so close to her, it's clear that they are together, but Mrs. College-type is deep in conversation with the person in front of her in line. It seems to be a stranger, an older woman, a local, offering sympathetic nods in response to Mrs. College-Type's story. Trying to look natural, I edge forward and mentally block out the roar of the crowd to catch the conversation.

Mrs. College-Type is recounting a saga, something about car trouble. They barely made it into the parking lot here, she says, there was steam pouring out from under the hood. They've dropped their station wagon off with the mechanic at the rest stop gas station, and they learned just a minute ago that it won't be ready until at least tomorrow. And it's tough because tomorrow's their anniversary! The've been dating since freshman year, and tomorrow it will be seven years.

I watch her gesticulations, but see no sign of a wedding ring. Seven years and they're not married, or even engaged. Maybe I'm old fashioned, but if neither are ready to commit at that point but still together, their relationship might not be all it's cracked up to be. I drink her curves in one more time, this time appreciating the self-possession and intelligence evident in her face and word choice. I remember the view at the urinal.

And now, Mrs. -- excuse me

Ms. --

College-Type tells the stranger, they have to find somewhere to stay. They're looking into hotels nearby. I already know they won't find many options for the next couple exits. There's the Sleep Tite motel about ten miles back in the other direction, but something tells me they won't be too thrilled about staying in that fleabag. As if reading my mind, the stranger relays the exact same pieces of information. Ms. College-Type's face falls adorably.

I feel just rotten for them, genuinely. That's terrible luck. College-Type's jaw is clenched and he's glaring at his phone. We've all moved up about six spots in line, and the happy couple is about to order. He orders some fancy steamed-milk -- make that almond milk -- latte thing. She gets a large coffee, black. Atta girl.

They stand off the side as they await their order. The conversation with the stranger has stopped, and I don't look again until I've ordered. I wonder if the guy has recognized me from the bathroom, but when I walk over to the waiting area with my order placed, he's still engrossed in his phone.

I learn her name when the Starbucks employee calls it out: Beth. We make casual eye contact and exchange pleasant smiles as she walks back to the waiting area. My coffee is ready a moment later. While I'm grabbing a cardboard sleeve and some extra napkins from the milk station, I hear someone berating the busy Starbucks workers. From his petulant, entitled tone, I guess without looking that it's College-Type. Sure enough, he's scowling impotently while the employee explains that there's a backup for the machine to froth his almond milk.

I understand he must be frustrated with his car situation, but I have a special dislike for people who harass retail workers just doing their jobs. If I felt vague disdain tinged with pity for him before, the disdain is no longer vague and the pity has evaporated.

I look at Beth. She's clearly embarrassed and tries to get him to end his tantrum. When he shrugs her off, she happens to glance in my direction. We make eye contact again, and I offer a slight smile that says, "I'm sorry you have to deal with this." She smiles back gratefully then rolls her eyes and gestures with her head toward her partner.

As I'm walking away, his drink is finally ready and I learn his name: Dustin.

Well, the show is over. I leave them be and walk out to my trunk. I sit in the driver's seat and sip my coffee, keys in the ignition. My seatbelt buckle is in my hand when I see Beth and Dustin exit the building and sit at a bench outside a spot or two over from my truck. I release the buckle.

Behind the windshield I can't hear anything. Still, it's obvious they're fighting. Unable to tear myself away, I roll down my window a few inches. They're arguing about the hotel. He's yelling about how he wants to take an Uber to a Marriott 45 minutes away; she's trying to calm him down while advocating for the motel. She cites the cost of the long cab ride, plus the higher rate at the Marriott. I guess sitting at that computer all day doesn't pay too well.

They reach a testy detente and turn away from one another. I unlock my door. I try to convince myself as I walk toward them that its the good samaritan in me who wants to help these people, but with how radiant Beth looks in the waning afternoon sunlight, I don't find my internal argument very persuasive.

"Excuse me, folks," I say when I reach their bench. They turn their heads up to me in unison. The sun is starting to set behind me, and my position has put Beth in my shadow while Dustin has to squint and shade his eyes with his hand. I can't tell if he recognizes me from the bathroom.

"I'm real sorry to bother you, and I hate to admit this, but I happened to overhear you discussing your situation in the coffee line." I gesture my Starbucks cup toward the ones in their hands. "That's some real rotten luck. I -- "

Dustin cuts me off. "Yeah, thanks, but we've got it under control."

Beth glares at him. I ignore him and continue talking directly to Beth.

"Anyway, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry about the situation you're in, having to find somewhere to stay on short notice, and you're in a bit of a dead zone for quality establishments."

Dustin's not sure where this is going, but wherever it is, he doesn't like it. "Look man, thanks and all, but as I said, I'm handling it."

"Dustin, Jesus Christ!" Beth chimes in. There's real anger in her eyes, which I see now are a lovely hazel. "This man's trying to help us. The least you could do is not be rude."

She turns to me while he scowls. "I'm sorry about that. Please, go on."

I smile at her. It's hard not to. "That's alright, ma'am. I understand why he might have a bit of a short fuse, given your predicament."

At the words "short fuse" I lock eyes with Dustin for the first time. The sun has sunk below the tips of the pine trees on the hills in the distance. He can see me clearly now. He recognizes me. His eyes widen in apprehension, and his gaze darts to my groin. I watch his shoulders sink as he slouches back into the bench. A warm, fluttery feeling surges into my belly.

"To cut to the chase, I live just one exit down the highway here. I have a big house, plenty of space. If you want to spend the night there instead of the Sleep Tite, I have a guest room you can use. Queen bed, private bathroom, the works. Or if you just want to kill a few hours and eat some dinner before heading to the Marriott, I'd be happy to give you a lift there. I'm not one to boast, but I have a lovely view from my house. Even got a hot tub last spring. I think you might find it more agreeable than this."

I nod to our rest stop surroundings. As if to make my point for me, a family bursts out from the entrance, one kid screaming about his immediate need for an ice cream cone. His baby sister cries hysterically from its stroller.

Beth looks at Dustin. "What do you think? Might be nice to relax somewhere quiet after this mess of a day. Then we can head to the Marriott."

"I don't know, honey," Dustin says. He glances at my truck. I watched him register the logo for my electrician business plastered on the side. He takes in my dusty jeans and wrinkled flannel shirt. His tone is no longer aggressive, but self-consciously calm. "Queen bed in the guest room? Hot tub? I'm not sure I buy this. No offense, mister."

Little does he know, but I make a six figures a year and my company has three offices within forty miles of this rest stop.

"Oh, you might be surprised how far you can get in life if you know how to use your hands." I smile at him, holding up my mitts. They're not pretty, with a few visible nicks and scrapes, but they're big and experienced, the hands of a man.

"Well... I... we still don't know you," Dustin says, shoving his hands in his pockets. I can still see the faint outline of the piss stain on his pants. "You could be some kind of psycho. Can you give us a minute to talk about this?"

I look at Beth, who gives a slight nod.

"Of course," I say. "Take your time. I understand your hesitance, completely reasonable. My name is Alan Fuller, by the way, and for what it's worth, you can go talk to most of the employees inside here. They know me. They'll vouch for me as a card-carrying non-psycho."

Beth chuckles, earning a glare from Dustin. I walk back to my truck and lean against the rear panel in an effort to give them some privacy, but within moments I hear raised voices, mostly Dustin's piercing whine. I watch the sun set behind the hills in the distance, and there's a definite chill in the air by the time Beth taps me on the shoulder a few minutes later.

"Excuse me, Sir?" I find her formality incredibly cute, and I'm grinning as I turn to face them. Beth's arms are hugging each other across her stomach in an effort to ward off the chill, but she returns my smile. Dustin sulks a few feet back, his jaw set and eyebrows low.

"We'd love to take you up on your generous offer and have dinner and relax at your house for a while, and then if you wouldn't mind taking us to the Marriott for the evening." As she speaks, I try to avoid glancing to her chest, where her crossed arms are hoisting her bosom. "Thank you so much for your hospitality. We really appreciate it."

Dustin pretends to ignore her until she opens her eyes wide in warning. I watch him force his eyes to meet mine, and he mutters a reluctant, ungracious "thanks."

I reach out to shake their hands.

"Great! Glad to have you both aboard."

My large hand engulfs Beth's slender palm. Her fingers, long and elegant, are soft against my callouses. I linger for half a second too long, my thumb just barely rubbing the back of her palm. Dustin doesn't notice, but Beth does. She doesn't pull away.

Dustin's hand is just as soft as Beth's, and it's similarly dwarfed in my grasp. I apply more pressure, but he seems to have regained some of his confidence, because he returns the squeeze and raises his posture to look me in the eye.

"Sincerely Alan, thanks for the help."

I nod. They introduce themselves, and I pretend I don't know their names. After a few minutes of idle chatter, they grab their belongings, a rolling suitcase and a duffel sitting by the bench. Dustin has to tie his shoe, so Beth is the first one back to the truck. I escort her to the front passenger seat. I climb in next to her and close the door, and there's a moment of silence where it's just the two of us.

I turn the key and the engine comes purring to life. I forgot that I'd left the stereo on, and the jazz radio station I'd been listening to returns at full highway volume. I quickly turn it down to a more bearable volume and apologize, but Beth recognized the tune from the few seconds it played. We're immediately deep in discussion about our favorite jazz albums and artists, and neither of us hear Dustin knocking on the rear passenger side window until he's using his full fist to pound on the glass.

"Jesus, Dustin," Beth says after I unlock the door and he climbs in. "There's no need to pound on Alan's truck like that."

"No worries, big guy," I say, pre-empting an apology I assumed from the constipated look on his face was not forthcoming.

I back out of the parking space. I see in the rearview mirror that Dustin is still trying to situate himself and his bag among the bins of tools, wiring, insulation and so forth that take up two of the three rear seats.

"Apologies for the tight squeeze back there, my friend."

He glares at me.

Beth and I keep talking the whole drive to my house. Dustin tries once or twice to cut in and change the subject, but Beth to my surprise just ignores his interjections and continues our discussion. She knows her stuff, and her love of jazz is obvious, but I can tell she's trying to impress me. I let her. Eventually, Dustin slumps back against the seat and stares out the window.

The radio station cuts to commercial as I pull off the highway, and I turn it off. There's a comfortable silence in the front seat, and I smell a pleasant, floral aroma that I realize is Beth's hair. It's faint, but perfect. We turn into my neighborhood, and I watch in the rearview mirror Dustin's eyes widen as the expansive lawns and large homes come into view in the early-evening darkness.

The gravel crunches under the tires as we pull into my driveway. My house is on the side of a hill, and the steps leading from road-level to the front door are extensive and rather steep. There's a side door at ground level of course, but I want them to get the full experience of the house at the main entrance. I offer to carry all of their luggage for the climb, but Dustin insists on lugging his duffel, leaving his girlfriend's behind. As we reach the front door, he's trying to disguise the fact that he's a little out of breath.

I suggest they turn around to take in the view. The hills in the distance are silhouetted against the sunset's last rays, and the rolling acres of pine forest in the foreground are just visible. Everything is quiet for a moment, except for Dustin's muffled panting.

Beth breaks the silence. "Wow, it's beautiful Alan."

"It beats the Sleep Tite, I do believe. And I don't think the Marriott's got much on it either."

She chuckles.

"Its... very nice," Dustin says. Beth elbows him good-naturedly.

I open the door and show them to the guest room.

"Even if you don't want to spend the night -- which you are still more than welcome to do -- feel free to take a shower, lie down, relax. Make yourself comfortable. You guys have had one shit day."

I drop Beth's suitcase next to the bed, which is indeed a queen. She looks at me, and there's just something about her face that I can't resist.

"This is beautiful," she says, "and really too much hospitality. We can't thank you enough."

"Ah, it's no trouble. I'm glad for the company, truly."

She's smiling up at me and I can't look away. Our shared gaze must have lingered a moment too long because Dustin, who had been poking around the room and attached bathroom as if searching for some fault, clears his throat deliberately. Beth averts her eyes and occupies herself with unzipping her suitcase. Dustin eyes me as I walk to the door, but I meet his attempt at defiance with calm confidence.

"Get settled, come find me in the kitchen when you're ready. It's the second left from here, at the end of the hall."

Ten minutes later, after changing out of my work clothes into a clean button-down and jeans, I walk back across the house. They're not in the kitchen, and I head to the guest room to see if they need anything. I'm a few feet from the door when I hear them talking. The voices are not raised, but the tension is palpable. I make to turn away, leave them be, but the first words I can make out stop my retreat.