At the end of our driveway I slowly turned left.
I spent the next thirty minutes in a sort of trance as I drove the familiar route to the freeway. Memories of the neighbours kept interrupting my thoughts. If I had known that they were swingers we could have worked out some arrangement. My wife would not have been interested but I had often screwed around behind her back.
By the time I hit the highway I had filed those thoughts away. Three hours later I was halfway to Gundagai with a full bladder and an empty tank. I was bored and starting to get horny again. I turned off the highway into a small service station.
I had been here before. I liked the old fashioned service.You could pay for your petrol without being harassed about discount chocolate offers. They didn't sell lottery tickets. They sold old fashioned burgers, cooked to order. Sure, you had to wait, but the buns were never soggy or stale. I gassed the car then parked it under a shady tree. I paid for the fuel then claimed a table putting my newspaper and unopened coke on it. I quickly made my way to the toilet.
One of the cubicles had some unusually detailed graffiti. It was a bit longer than the usual phone numbers of cock hungry whores.
It related an encounter with a couple in Gundagai. A young truck driver was about to spend a rainy night in his broken down truck. A retired trucker spotted him and offered him dinner and a bed for the night. The bed contained the old guy's toothless wife. If you could believe the story, he used her three holes while the husband masturbated.
In the morning the couple had given him a lift back to the truck. She had given him a blowjob in the cabin while the mechanic changed the diff. When the repairs were complete the young guy fucked her arse while the mechanic was sucked off.
They all lived happily ever after, getting together for gangbangs on a regular basis. There was even a mobile phone number for prospective swingers. I had often thought about ringing one of the "married cumsluts" whose numbers are found in public toilets but I had never had enough guts. I washed my hands and headed back to the diner. As I walked through the narrow corridor I passed one of the cashiers. She was a large woman in her late thirties. Her uniform was open enough to reveal most of her large breasts. Her hip rubbed against my arm. I apologised and she paused for a moment.
"Is there anything that I can help you with?" she asked as she pressed against me.
"Actually, there is," I whispered to her with hesitation in my voice, "I'm concerned by the filth that's written in the toilet."
"Oh, really," she replied "What about it?"
