My legs were wrapped around his hips; my eyes were watering, and locked on his. And the driver reviver Tarzan was between my thighs, swinging me back and forth as I hung suspended, wrapped in the lianas trailing down from the jungle canopy high above us. He was swinging me so that his humungous dick sunk into me to the hilt on each swing forward, then nearly exited my channel on each swing back. I gripped his arms as his fingers grasped my burning nipples and I yelled, "Yes, yes. Deeper. Fuck me . . . Ohhhhhhh."
The image of being suspended high above the ground in vines with a hunky Tarzan, his feet wide-spread and clinging to branches of the tree, standing between my thighs and just swinging me back and forth on his stiff, long, thick prick was driving me wild. Him grunting at the exertion, his muscles rippling. Me helplessly entwined in the vines, begging him at first to slow down, to give me more time, not to thrust so deep and hold himself inside me to the root so long. Him laughing and thrusting deeper and rotating his hips, pressing me everywhere inside.
Then I'm letting out a long moan, arching my back, and giving in to him completely, crying to him now that I can't get enough of him. Bucking against him as he gets wilder and thrusts, thrusts, thrusts. His eyes capturing mine. Telling me that he can continue this almost endlessly, and he does. Bucking, thrusting, moaning, groaning.
"Yessssssssssss." I screamed, throwing my head back. My cream spouting into the steamy jungle atmosphere and landing on his arms and my chest.
We were making so much noise. Attracting the young, virile, nearby tribesmen. They are in the jungle, hidden, but touching themselves and each other as they watch Tarzan plowing me. And then, with his permission . . . .
My second visit to the driver reliever at the wayside rest stop was going even better than my first. All tension from the long drive on the busy highway had flowed out of me and I was ready to face the traffic once more.
* * *
I had heard the one about the hunks waiting inside what looked like an ordinary portable toilet at the driver reviver station at the end of the F3 freeway several times. In your dreams, I thought. And laughed each time. Hunks hung like horses and just waiting about for sex. Ha. But when Hank had told us about being there and seeing it, I had been thoughtful afterwards.
Hank has no imagination. Hank couldn't dream up a decent sexual fantasy if his life depended on it, let alone a gay one. Hank has never made any sign he might even fancy that sort of release. But Hank is also boringly honest. Which is actually one reason I like him. You can rely on Hank. If he says he will come over and help you build a fence at the side of the house, well he does.
So now we were off to Foster for a few days, me, the wife and the son and daughter in law. And it was Christmas school holidays, and we were going on Saturday morning so the driver reviver stations, where local service clubs provide free coffee and snacks for harried holiday traffic drivers at rest stops, would be in full swing. And we would be passing the one at the end of the F3 freeway, next to the big roundabout between the freeway's end and the Kurri road, where this urban gay myth was supposed to exist. So I would see. Which made me feel pretty idiotic; I mean it was a myth, what was I going to look for at the reviver station, some spaceship or something? And how was I going to look?
The daughter-in-law and my wife could talk all day, and the son in law was still always happy and looking dopey, as long as he was around his new wife. So leaving them with a free cup of coffee and some fruit cake from the Lions club van and going off alone to the line of portable toilets for fifteen minutes would be easy. I could then come back and tell Hank he must have been drunk, or dreaming, or probably both. Not that he was much of a drinker.
I was edgy all morning, and the traffic on the road slowing us down didn't help me to relax. Which was all pretty silly. All I was doing was getting tense because I was going to prove out a myth was just that, a myth.
We finally arrived at the end of the freeway, and my body relaxed, but my mind raced. At last, I thought, in a little while it will be over. There was a short queue of cars moving off into the carparking area and I followed them. It was busier than I remembered it from our last visit a couple of years before. The Lions van was set up in the middle of the open dirt area, its shutters up and a couple of queues lined up for their free coffee. I had trouble finding anywhere to park and the crowds milling about in the bright sunshine and heat made it look just like a market day, or a car boot sale.
And along the back of the rough dirt area, hard up against the bush that skirted the cleared parking area, was the long row of forty portable moulded fibreglass toilets. Their doors opened and banged closed regularly, up and down the line as people moved in and out of them.
We got out of the car and all headed over that way. And I did my first survey. The units all looked pretty much the same, but they did all have numbers on them, like Hank had said. Hank's story had been the most detailed, but then Hank could be quite anal at times.
He had said it was portable unit H093, and I started reading the numbers as I ran my eye down the line of portable units.
"Hurry up Neil," my wife said, as I stopped, and she bumped into me, "We don't want to be here all day, and there is a queue for coffee."
"You go ahead ,"I said, "I feel a bit queasy. I may be a while." I grimaced at her.
