Andy’s Nymphomania — The Truck Stop

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I’m at a truck stop looking for cock; not the civilised kind that one finds in hotel bars, the brutish kind that I can treat as throwaway and wordlessly dispense of once I come.

Dusk has given way to night as I enter the diner, sit down and order a waffle. I already know that it will be mushy and disgusting but no worse than anything else on the menu. The numb waitress and I are the only females in the room.

As I wait for my order to arrive I scan the room; there are several bearded or rough stubbled men, their eyes glazed over from cross-country journeys, sitting in the booths that line the windows. But it is the lone rancher at the counter that catches my eye. He must be in his mid-thirties, dressed in jeans and dusty work boots. I imagine a western belt buckle under his untucked shirt.

My waffle arrives, it floats in a mess of ice cream and syrup. I pick at it for a minute and then take the plate and walk over to him. “Something sweet?” I say and hold out the plate. He looks up at me, smiles half heartedly and replies, “Coffee is working for me right now. Thanks all the same.”

I sit down next to him, “Yeah, probably a safer bet.”

“Where are you headed?” I ask.

He hesitates for a moment but then replies, “Home.”

“And where is home?”

“Lubbock.”

The conversation has run out and I pick up my fork and half-heartedly pick at my waffle.

I try again, “My name is Andy,” but he just nods in reply.

“It looks like you’ve come off of a long haul. I’m headed back East, heading home as well,” I lie.

He smiles but does not reply.

I decide to go for it. I can clearly see the wedding band on his hand but imagine his cock in my mouth and pussy and am not in the mood to take no for an answer, “I’ve gotta be honest with you, I’m bored. Aren’t you bored?”

He smiles, “Well, truthfully, this ain’t exactly Vegas, right?”

I smile back and put my hand on his arm, “Certainly not, but I sure do wish it was,” my affected Texas grammar is barely holding together.

He doesn’t pull his arm away but does not carry on the conversation either.

“Tell you what,” — I go for broke — “Why don’t we see if we can arrange our own little Vegas evening right here?”

Instantly I can see the suspicion in his eyes, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Come out with me to my truck,” I push, “You can fuck me in the back — a little stress reliever.”

He pulls his arm away sharply, “I’m sorry ma’am but there must be a mistake.”

I soften my tone and innocently shrug my shoulders, “All I’m saying is that I’m available,” I tilt my head and smile, “it might be fun.”

I can see in his eyes that I’ve got him hooked, I know that he hasn’t smelled clean blonde hair like mine in years and that he knows how my breasts would feel under his rough hands. He hesitates momentarily then retreats, “there must be a mistake,” is all that he can get out as he hangs his head in defeat and I know that he can feel the wedding band burn like acid into his flesh.

I smile sweetly and say, “I understand. Sorry to have bothered you and have a safe drive back to Lubbock.”

I turn, get up from my stool and head to the door without paying for my waffle. I know that he will tell the waitress to add it to his bill so as to retreat even further back into his defeated life.

Outside I walk straight to the blue pickup truck with the Texas Tech sticker in the back window. I walk around it and pull down my jeans before leaning against the truck, pressing my buttocks up against the cold steel of the passenger door. I go to work quickly, first wetting two fingers in my mouth and then rubbing my clit until I come, being sure to catch as much wetness as possible in my hand. Then, with my other hand, I pull up my pants and walk around to the front of the truck where I smear my wet hand over the windshield on the driver’s side so that I can be certain that he’ll see the sticky marks of my cum as he sits down behind the steering wheel.

None of this makes me feel any better but, right in this moment, it’s the closest that I can get to a sense of comfort.


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