Wyoming attracts certain kinds of people. There are the tourists, of course, looking for all the natural beauty—the mountains, the forests, the wildlife. There's the footloose, people who don't want to be tied down anywhere just now, who feel that if they keep driving they won't have to stop. Hippies confident they'll see the real meaning of God, the universe, whatever. And people who desperately don't want to be wherever they come from, who get in their cars and just drive, drive anywhere, away.
They all seem to come through my gas station.
I don't mind. The big open sky out here can leave you feeling pretty isolated and alone, especially after a few decades of life that don't seem to change much, month by month, year by year. So I don't mind when they take a moment after they pay for their gas and Doritos and Vitamin Waters, and hesitate, just as they're turning toward their cars, and start to make conversation. A few years ago I even set up a little round table with two chairs off to the side of the front counter, and got one of those single-cup coffee machines so I can offer them a mug of something warm while they start to realize they're telling me their stories. The people and their mysteries, their stories if they want to tell ’em, it's part of the job, my dad used to say. I believed him. It's how he met my mom.
I met plenty of strange folks myself. The one I remember most was a young man by himself who pulled in on the first sunny afternoon after a freak wet spell that'd lasted nigh a week. I happened to be standing on the porch outside the store, doing nothing in particular I suppose beyond enjoying the sunshine, when he pulled off the state road and into the station. His car was an old-model BMW, beaten and used but sturdy, a brown baked dull by the sun. I notice the cars, of course. Either he'd been wandering a long time, or his car had.
His tee shirt, too, was worn and thin, like his car's paint job, and though the shirt wasn't too tight it was obvious his torso was well muscled. Not hugely muscled like a bodybuilder, but more than buff. The peach of his skin seemed to shine through the dark blue of the shirt where it was worn the most, across his broad upper back. His jeans were a little newer, like he'd had to replace the old ones when they fell apart completely not too long ago. The jeans were loose but still showed off his thick, firm backside, which I found myself, somewhat to my surprise, staring at as he pumped his gas. He wore very beat-up tan workboots that scuffed the still-damp cement around the islands. His hair was black and close-cropped, like he shaved it himself rather than see a barber. He kept his face turned away from me, like he knew I was watching, and I nudged myself to go into the store and leave him be.
After a while he came into the store. He kept his face down like he was trying to avoid human contact, like a leper or something. This saddened me immensely, somehow, and again I was surprised: I felt drawn to him, more than my usual compassion/curiosity/boredom would allow for. In fact I felt physically drawn to him, like I wanted to hold him, a sensation I hadn't felt for a man since high school. I was unnerved as well: who was this guy, and why was he affecting me so strongly? Was I entering a new phase of loneliness even more powerful and intense than what I'd been feeling all these years? I shuddered at the thought.
The stranger wandered through the little aisles of my store, though I sensed he wasn't really looking for anything. A lot of people go through the aisles after pumping up because that's what you do at a gas station. Suits me: they end up buying stuff they don't really want. I slouched behind the counter, oddly jittery, like the air was charged.
The stranger was over by the refrigerated cases now. He pulled out a liter of cold water and headed over to me, his boots clomping flatly on the linoleum floor. His eyes were still down. He set the drink down on the counter and then dropped his hand to the counter, inert, waiting, ready for this contact to be over.
I cannot explain why, but I was moved almost to tears. I reached out to pick up the drink, but suddenly, impulsively, I grabbed his hand instead. He was so taken by surprise that he looked up, his ice blue eyes locked with mine, and inside a jarring second I started to feel like I was—disconnected—unlocked—like I was not longer bound to the ground but floating in space.
I could still see the stranger, his laser-light eyes wide with the unexpected contact. Our hands gripped each other. I heard a word escape his lips, as if from a distance—but it was just a “Damn!” of frustration, of a slip he'd been trying to avoid.
The moment seemed to swirl around me and vanish into me. And then it was over. I was still staring into his eyes, gripping his hand, but something was different. I felt—alive, energized.
The stranger spoke again, another “Damn!”, this time one of awe.
I wrapped my free hand around his neck and pulled him toward me and kissed him, our mouths open and hungry. Whatever regret he felt at “slipping” didn't stop him from kissing me with aching desire, a desire of the like no one had felt for me since my days as a handsome stripling of a teenager; and even then, never this strong, this passionate. I had pulled him to me out of sudden shared passion before I even remembered to think that I was no longer that handsome young man of yore, but instinctively I knew that my rational mind was wrong, and as our tongues thrust past each other my memory supplied images: me in the mirror shaving the morning, a version of my youthful beauty staring back more gorgeous than it had ever been, bright eyes, long blond hair, firm jaw, strong neck; and just hinted at along the bottom of the mirror the naked, powerful shoulders of an obsessed athlete. With a slight effort I turned the memory over and I saw the other me, the older me, shaving that morning, gray bristles among the brown. No, not older: I was the same age, I'd just stopped aging long ago. Even as I reveled in a deeper, more passionate kiss than I'd ever experienced I was aware at some basic level of these dual memories, the two lives I'd lived, the old reality and the new.
I pulled him over the counter, recklessly knocking over some candy displays, strewing Andes mints all over the floor of the shop. I held his thick body hard against mine, and as I pressed my hand hard against his firm ass I felt our crotches grind together as we kept on deep kissing, and I felt with a sense of coming home his huge hard cock against my even huger one. New memories again: of beating off two-handed so often my sweat-glistened eight-pack abs and narrow waist looked strange to me without a coating of my own hot cum; of guys driving through for gas and staring open-mouthed at the foot-long-soft monster hanging loose in my slacks as I lounged shirtless against one of the pillars on the porch waiting for them to pay, my heavy melon-like pecs casting a deep dark shadow down on the crevices of my rippling abs. Of the college guy from town who started coming by every Saturday afternoon for a fill-up, whether he needed gas or not.
I managed to free my mouth from his and drag my bristly cheek along the side of his face. “Who did you make me into?” I whispered into his ear, adding a lick that caused him to moan.
“My fantasy,” he whispered back.
Later I would have many questions, but in that moment there was only one. “Does your fantasy fuck you?” I breathed, cupping both his hard asscheeks in my big hands. I knew the answer but I also knew that hearing it would arouse me even more.
“Yeah,” he said, softly, a wisp of thought, and my balls tightened and swelled with the cum I would spray inside him.
Our pants were gone before I realized it—I didn't remember shucking them—and I turned him around, pushing him against the counter, my enormous phone pole cock parting his muscle-hard cheeks, rubbing along the crevice of his perfect ass, drooling pools of precum onto his wide, tight back. trickles of sweat dripped between my oversized pecs, dampening my tee shirt.
I leaned back so I could press my cockhead against his hole, and when they touched it was like they were drawn to each other, my cockhead and his hole recognizing each other, hungering for each other, and I pushed inside him, feeling like a traveler gratefully returning home, like a soul returning to its body.
It took seconds, hours, to sheathe my immense cock inside him, every inch feeling like a godsend, and I started to see more things, feel more things. Not memories—not memories of my lives anyway. Past lovers fucked the stranger with me. I felt them, I felt their animal passion, and they felt mine. Dozens of us stood there, fucking him, feeling his ass, our cocks, each others’ amazing bods, fucking each other, oh god, so much ecstasy, so much cock! I could sense, too, feeling those bodies, in a miasma of memories and lurid, diffusing orgiastic bliss, the feel of hard sweaty bodies and urgent unstoppable thrusting deeper and deeper into our avatar—I could sense that I was the biggest, the sexiest, the most exquisite. The first—twenty boys from private school, all changed before he understood what puberty had released in him—looked like themselves, only buffer, harder, more hung, more driven to indulge in primal sexual emotions. But his fantasy had progressed. Some were more muscular than I was, but not as perfectly proportioned. Some looked like movie stars. But he'd honed his fantasy even as he'd shunned people altogether, afraid of morphing someone, of changing them even before they'd realized it. I was the first guy he'd changed in years, and his ass was aching for me. His whole body was. His soul was—he loved me.
My cock, all our cocks exploded, and he screamed, and I bellowed as if I were cumming with all those cocks, roared as I pounded gouts of our white hot cum deep inside him. My eyes swam and I felt the orgasms of twenty years of fantasy boys wash over me like an ocean.
I kept cumming, we all kept cumming, him and me and the other dream men, cumming to drain a bottomless lake of cum. At some point we were spent, and I wrapped my arms around him in slow motion, feeling all the warm muscle-thick arms and legs of all the boys wrapped around him, around me, around us.
I remember whispering in his ear, “I love you too.” And he shuddered, leaning deeper into my strong embrace, my cock still hard and thrust inside him to the hilt. I never wanted it to feel the air again. I drifted, floating in a sea of warm, muscular, half-real bodies…
I woke suddenly, searing sunlight pummeling the skin of my face. I was in my bed in the apartment behind the station. What a dream! My cock was already hard and it twitched, thinking about the dream. But it felt—I glanced down, over my enormous pecs, to see my cock was pitching a tent in the sheets big enough to camp under.
I sat up, too fast. Visions, lives, swam before me. But gradually I focused enough to see I was alone. Not exactly alone: there were a couple of dream men in bed with me, dozing, phantoms of my mind but real enough to kiss, to hold, to fuck. A soldier from the look, shaved head, thick muscles, narrow waist, a half-hard cock draped across his torso, the head snuggling the nipple of his bulging left pec. And a lanky college-age kid, bulging with muscle but still gangly, adorably cute in repose. They were beautiful, and my mutant cock wanted to see if fucking them was as amazing as fucking him, the stranger, my love, but I knew a little better than my cock.
I sensed him as I sensed all the dream men: he was driving, lonely on an empty highway. Our minds touched, and I knew that he loved me, but that he didn't trust our love because it was magical, fake. His mind slipped away from mine and was gone for now.
I realized that it didn't matter why I loved him, only that I did. I slowly kissed both of my phantasms awake and, as their shining eyes met mine, I said softly, “C’mon. We’ve got some driving to do.”
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