Night Shift

by Joanna Angel

  His fingers went over the garter and underneath my panties. I could feel a hard cock pressing through his matching lace panties behind me against my right butt cheek. I was soaking wet; his fingers were strong and thick, and they circled around the area between my legs with ease. I was beginning to shake. He kissed my neck harder and his fingers began going faster. The panties were getting looser on my body. He found my clit, and I started to breathe heavily as he moved his finger up and down and up and down on it. We had several hundred vibrators and dildos at our disposal but I wanted nothing but his fingers. His large bodily mass enveloped me, his beard scratched against my ear, and his stockings and cock were pressed up against my ass while he catered to my clit so powerfully. He then took his other hand, reached down my ass, went underneath me, and stuck a finger inside my vagina. There was so much wetness he quickly stuck in two, and I slid myself up and down on his fingers while he continued to put pressure on my clit. “More,” I yelled. I wanted more. I wanted more fingers, toes, arms, whatever—I wanted more of him inside me. He put another finger inside me and I loved the way my vagina felt challenged. His four fingers were thicker than an average cock, and they moved inside of me further and further. I moaned and moaned; he held onto my neck and lightly choked me.

  He turned me around and pushed me down into the folding chair. I’m not sure how I landed so gracefully on there in the dark, but I did. He got down on his knees and spread my legs far apart, he pushed my lace panties to the side. I wasn’t sure what his plan was, but I quickly felt a jolt of steam hit my labia; his hot breath. He licked his tongue up and down my vagina, teasing me, showing off all he could do with his mouth. I could feel so many foreign juices of mine seep into his mouth. I wanted him to taste every bit of me. His tongue was just as powerful as his fingers, but he spoiled me by stabbing his four fingers back inside me, going deeper and deeper while keeping his mouth on my clit. He curled his fingers inside me. He went really hard while licking and licking furiously. I felt out of control. I was shaking vigorously and uncontrollably. It was dark in here—did he swipe a dildo off the shelf that I couldn’t see that he was sticking inside me? He was hitting a new spot somewhere inside me with his powerful fingers. I felt myself open up, my legs were spreading further and further open. They felt like Jell-O, and I thought they might just detach from my body and walk away.

  He sucked and licked, with my pubic hairs in his mouth and his fingers jackhammering my pussy. I didn’t feel like I had a vagina anymore—it was now officially a pussy. This body part feeling this sensation right now didn’t warrant a biological/anatomical name that would be used in a science class. It deserved a slutty name that could be found in the urban dictionary. It was now a coochie or a cunt. Something you would never say around your parents. He must have paved his own secret passageway inside my body, because nothing and no one who had ever been inside me had made me feel this way. I lost control and liquid gushed out of me everywhere. I screamed. He kept going with his fingers, and he opened his mouth and drank all the juices coming out of me. He stuck his thumb inside me, my hole was so open for him; I was panting and begging him for more as liquid streamed out of me like a garden hose watering his beard.

  His whole hand was in me and he made a fist, inside of me. Holy shit. Was there really a fist inside me? I believe there was. I could see a hint of a glow from the roman numerals on his watch resting against the opening of my vagina.

  He rubbed and rubbed my clit, I felt stuffed and tight and loose at the same time. I was screaming and practically crying. I couldn’t stop cumming. I hadn’t had an orgasm in so long and this one made up for lost time. This had to be like ten orgasms in one. My legs were up in the air. I clenched up and reached some kind of climax of a climax, which pushed his hand out of me. He stuck his hand in my face, and I licked my own juices off of him. As I sucked off my own body from his fingers, he began moaning louder. I saw his other hand moving up and down. He was jerking off, and I wanted to help. What should I do? He was clearly more experienced than I was. The fabric from the panties was still on his cock, and he moved his hand swiftly up and down. I wasn’t sure what I should do, I felt drunk from my multiple orgasms.

  He let out a big loud grunt. He had such a sexy deep voice that just got deeper as he was climaxing. It was hard to tell what was going on in the dark. He put his thigh up to my mouth, I could feel warm stickiness on top of his nylon. I licked it off, I licked everywhere in the entire surface area of his large thigh to make sure to get every last drop of cum that might be there. There was a cocktail of bodily fluids in my mouth and I didn’t want the taste to ever wash away. It was like I bit into an apple full of sex.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  He threw his T-shirt on me, grabbed his jeans and his jacket, and I locked up the store. Outside in what I was sure was becoming a hurricane, while we were drenched in orgasms and hard rain, he finally gave me a kiss. I had felt his tongue on my pussy and neck but not on the lips on my face until now. Perhaps we could continue this defiance of the order of typical dating operations and next we will get dinner, and then, maybe after, learn each other’s last names.

  We headed toward his eighteen-wheeler semi truck. It looked so sexy and powerful next to my puny Honda Civic. Where we were headed, I wasn’t so sure, but I was excited to see what would happen next.

  Continue with Taryn in this fantasy, Click Here.

  I had a beautiful night’s sleep in the back of Billy’s truck, in a tiny loft space he built on top of the seats. It was called a “sleeper,” rather appropriately, with a small mattress that we fit on together snugly. His sheets were red and silky, his pillows were black and fluffy, and there were multiple bumpy foam egg crates between the sheet and the mattress, which gave it that extra oomph of comfort.

  We slept parked underneath an overpass so the rain wouldn’t hit the windows quite as hard. We woke up sometime in the afternoon, and watched downloaded episodes of Twin Peaks on his laptop. We heated up organic microwave burritos (I had no idea organic ones existed—microwave meals have come a long way) and Billy tried on different pieces of lingerie that he recently purchased from Walmart. The items weren’t nearly as flattering as the ones from Dreamz. They looked cheap, and the lace didn’t have quite the same feel, and the stockings ripped as soon as they came out of the package.

  After the sixth pair of panties that would be too ugly for most women to even wear on laundry day, I asked, “Why did you get these? You have better taste than this!”

  “I just needed to work up the courage to buy panties, in public,” he answered. “It was important.”

  “You think anyone really looks at what anyone is buying in a Walmart?” I laughed. He wasn’t laughing with me. I suppose it actually wasn’t really a joke, just a statement about the ambivalence of the people at Walmart.

  “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Really!”

  “I was in a panic the entire time—I felt like everyone was staring at me,” he said.

  “If anyone asked, you could have said it was for your girlfriend. But no one was going to ask, anyway!”

  “I tried to say that once at Victoria’s Secret and they kicked me out. I felt like a criminal. They must have just known,” he said.

  “Well, their stuff is way over priced and the people who work there are REALLY annoying. They practically kicked ME out of the store for not agreeing to get their credit card after purchasing one damn bra.”

  Then he actually laughed.

  “Do you want to see what else I got?” he asked.

  “Of course!” I answered.

  “It’s a secret,” he said.

  “I mean, you did put your fist inside me while I was technically on the clock. Your secret is definitely safe with me!”

  He pulled out a big shoe box stored underneath his passenger seat. It was a large pair of pointy ankle boots. They sure were a “Secret”—strong enough for a man, but made for a woman.

  “Did you try t
hem on?” I asked.

  “Not in the store, but yes. I did. And they fit perfectly!” He smiled.

  “Is this your first pair of . . .” I stopped myself midsentence. I was going to say “women’s shoes” but would that be offensive for me to imply these were shoes made for a woman and not a man? And if I said, “Is this your first pair of shoes?” then that would make him sound like a child, or a hobo, who didn’t own any shoes. I was stuck inside of the ocean of a sentence and I wasn’t sure how to move forward and I was too deep to go back.

  “Yes, they are my first,” he answered. He knew what I was trying to say. He squeezed his feet into the shoes and put them on. He smiled and held my hand.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Thanks for what? Watching you put on a pair of shoes?”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re the first one to see me do this.”

  “You’re talking about it like I’m watching you do heroin!” I said. “You need to relax!”

  I hated when people told me to relax, and I was almost never relaxed. I felt hypocritical saying the words out loud.

  “You can talk to me, Billy. But if you don’t want to talk that’s okay, too. I’m here and I love your shoes, and your panties—well, I like the panties you got from my store, not those other ones!” I kissed him, and he firmly held my hand. He squeezed it tightly.

  “So I’m from Boca Raton,” he said.

  “Ha! Really? It’s . . . incredibly fancy there,” I answered.

  “I was engaged to a woman I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with. We were high school sweethearts, we dated through our early twenties. We went to college together, then she went on to med school, studying to be a surgeon. I was working with my father. He owned a construction business and he was training me to take it over from him so he could retire early.”

  “Okay. . .”

  “Well, I had this strong urge to dress up ever since I was young. To feel the flowy fabrics against my skin. To feel . . . pretty. I never got to explore it. I thought the urge would go away, but it didn’t. It kept me up at night. Finally, I got myself just one pair of panties and a pair of stockings. I actually drove to a Rite Aid in a different county to get them. I hid them in the crawl space above my fiancée’s and my bedroom that she never went into. I would put them on every Tuesday evening, when she had night class. I walked around the house, I would walk around on my tiptoes and pretend I was wearing high heels. I wasn’t sure what I was doing. I just knew it was something I had to do.” He paused.

  “One Tuesday night, I wound up getting a little tipsy while I dressed up. I had accumulated panties, stockings, and a camisole I found at the Good Will. The outfit was a complete disaster but I was enjoying myself. I lost track of time, and my girlfriend came home. I quickly got everything off and shoved it under the bed. Thinking about it now, maybe I just wanted to get caught. I don’t know. But she found them, and she brought them into my work the next day at the construction site, where I was with my father. She stormed right in and looked like she had been crying.”

  “Okay,” I said, while he held me closer and teared up a bit as he continued to talk.

  “She said, ‘WHOSE ARE THESE?’ She thought I was cheating on her. I thought an honest answer would be a sigh of relief, so I said they were mine. But I sure was wrong. My father punched me in the face and called me a faggot and had security remove me from the site. I haven’t heard from either of them, or even my mother, ever since. They wouldn’t answer my calls, they wouldn’t even let me come get my stuff. So I got a job delivering produce. I stay in my truck and motel rooms and I just keep moving.”

  “When did that happen?” I asked.

  “About two years ago,” he said. “I was confused by this feeling and I still am. I mean, I’m not gay. I tried that when I first got on the road a few times and it—well it didn’t really work, if you know what I mean. I never masturbated and thought of having sex with men. I’m not ashamed of my cock. I like my cock, but I don’t want to see it when I put my panties on. I’ve tried fitting in with different groups of people in the past two years, and I don’t really fit in anywhere. But I know that this part of me is important and I need to explore it more and I’m just sick of being embarrassed or ashamed.”

  I held him. I understood. Maybe not to the exact degree, but I was never quite weird enough for the weirdos and I was never normal enough for the normies. There were bits and pieces of me scattered all over the place and I wasn’t quite sure how they all fit together. My iTunes never knew how to make a proper “genius” mix for me because my two favorite music artists at that moment were Ariana Grande and Depeche Mode. Seriously.

  And yeah, the fact that there’s no perfect Pandora station for me doesn’t hold a candle to being punched in the face by your father, but I knew that I always had a hard time being comfortable with just about anyone I had ever met, anyone ever, except . . . Billy. Whose last name I still didn’t know. That was a minor detail.

  “Well, what should we do next?” I asked. “I have a day off, and I am up for anything.”

  “How about we start with taking a shower?”

  “Right! Where exactly do you shower by the way?” I asked. I looked under the bed as if there might be some kind of miniature, compact, folding bathroom underneath there. It wasn’t completely outlandish to think that. There was, after all, a miniature microwave, a micro miniature fridge that made the usual college mini fridges look giant.

  “Get ready, girl, for your first truck-stop shower!” he said. I know my apartment was a mere eight miles away and I fully just did pay for my portion of the water bill, but I felt like Billy and I were existing in some kind of dream bubble; going back to any semblance of my “real” life would make this bubble pop and the dream would end. And I wasn’t ready for it to end.

  Continue with Taryn in this fantasy, Click Here.

  We still smelled like sex, but not the good leftover smell of sex. That smell had fermented into something more akin to mold on our bodies and we needed to wash it off, to make way for new and fresher sex smells. Billy slipped on a pair of sweatpants and sneakers, while I borrowed one of his flannels that went down to my knees and my Converse sneakers. We hopped into the truck’s front seats and set off down the highway.

  Not too long after, we pulled into some kind of parking lot with a whole bunch of different sized trucks filling the spaces. In the middle of the lot was a decent sized building. We parked at the back of the lot—those spots get more shade, Billy said—and parked the truck. As we walked through the lot, I saw several men sleeping at the wheel, though plenty more were partaking in outside activities: some were stretching and doing various pull-ups on bars suctioned to the outside of their trucks, some were reading outside on the back ledges of the truck, and some were talking on their cell phones. They nodded at us as we walked by. I was sure they thought I was some kind of stray hitchhiker he gave a ride to, and it actually wasn’t completely far off from the truth. I was waiting at Dreamz for someone or something to take me to wherever my next step in life was, and that step seemed to be a truck filled with lots of pairs of panties.

  We arrived at the building. It was plain-looking with gray paint on all sides, no windows, and only a door with a coin-operated lock. Billy pulled a few quarters out of his pocket, put them in the door, and turned the latch and it locked behind us.

  “These are, like, the Mercedes of truck-stop showers. Only the finest for you!” he said with a grin. He opened the door with a flourish.

  Inside, it was incredibly clean, with various soaps and shampoos and conditioners lined up on the wall for anyone’s use. I never expected that a shower on an off-ramp on a highway could be so glamorous. It was a big open room with no shower curtain, and light and dark brown checkered tile. We quickly undressed, giddy at the thought of warm water rushing over us. He turned the shower on and it was the absolute perfect pressure, unlike the shower in my house which felt much like a very dehydrated person was pe
eing on me. The nozzle was large, like a flying saucer that rained down enough water to cover the both of us.

  We let the water soothe our bodies, grabbing soap to scrub away the gross things on our skin, letting the suds of soap fizz up on us. We kissed in the stream of warm water—between this and the make-out session in the monsoon yesterday, we appeared to be quite good at kissing underwater. Something about the wetness pouring on our heads and our saliva mixing with one another’s brought a beautiful energy between us. I grabbed a new body puff out of the package and soaped up his body. I cleaned his elbows and his knees, and his armpits. He scrubbed my breasts and my stomach—the smell of the soap was so pure and clean— and then he massaged shampoo into my hair, slowly, the way someone at a professional hair salon would do.

  Eventually, I went down his body and soaped up his crotch. I finally got a good look at his penis. It wasn’t erect but it still looked thick, and his testicles were perfectly round and soft. I was giddy thinking about all the fun I could have with it. I rinsed the soap off, and put the conditioner in my hair. I had frizzy, uncooperative hair, and conditioner had to remain in it for at least eight to twelve minutes for it to be at all effective. I looked at Billy’s cock and thought of a perfect way to pass the time. I knew the way his mouth tasted, I knew the way his cum tasted, and I knew the way his organic microwave burritos tasted, but I actually didn’t know the way his cock tasted and I wanted that to change.

  I knelt down on the tile floor with half a bottle of conditioner penetrating my hair and I began stroking Billy’s cock. He looked down at me in anticipation, watching to see what move I would make next. It had been over a year since I had anyone’s penis in my mouth—I was like some kind of born-again blow-job virgin. I really, really wanted to make him feel good. I had never experienced this feeling when confronted with a cock in my face. I will shamefully admit that with all the blow jobs in my life prior to this moment, I was just going through the motions, sucking dutifully until the cock was hard enough to stick inside of me. What a difference it was to have a cock in front of me attached to someone I truly wanted to please! I had some new visuals in my brain from the snippets of pornography I saw on the monitors in the ROOMZ at work. With a little inspiration from those, along with just following my own instincts, I would give a new and improved blow job.