by Kerri Sharpe
The second time was during finals, when I swore I’d stop because it was spoiling my concentration on my work. I succeeded too, although as the days ticked by I could feel my need rising, and while all my fellow students were getting outrageously drunk at our party after the final exam I was on orange juice, the designated driver, which allowed me to visit my favourite service station at four o’clock in the morning.
I graduated with a 2:1 and took up a PhD grant even further from home than before. Most of my friends were going into work, which meant salaries, and it took me quite a bit of willpower not to do the same. Not because I wanted to join the ranks of the wage slaves, you understand, but because it would have meant I could afford a bigger car. A bigger car meant more petrol. More petrol meant more time to fill up. More time to fill up might just mean that I could bring my nasty little habit to the climax that had eluded me for so long.
Being a good girl at heart, I resisted, but it was only when I’d settled down in the north of England to work on my thesis that I discovered the joys of demonstrating. I’d been vaguely aware that graduates could add to their pay by taking practicals, but I’d never realised how well it paid, or how much was available. To the delight of my tutors I took on work in every subject I could handle, and quite a few I wasn’t at all sure about.
For the first time in my life I was earning money, and I knew exactly what I wanted to buy. Well, not exactly, because it took me a while to work out which of the models I could afford would take the longest to fill up. I shall skip over the details, save to say that the most fanatic anorak would have been amazed at me as I sat up over my calculations, surrounded by car catalogues new and old, drinking coffee after coffee until I was satisfied.
At last I made my selection, a big old Ford with a fifteen-gallon tank, twice as big as the one in my Metro. I know it sounds silly, and the sort of thing only men are supposed to do, but as I drove away from the dealer’s forecourt I felt as if I were going on a first date, and felt bad about ‘dumping’ my Metro. As usual, feeling a bit silly didn’t stop me, and, as there was almost nothing in the tank, I knew it wouldn’t be long.
I drove myself home and forced myself to take my time over dinner, then sit down and watch TV for a bit, although my hands kept straying either to my car keys or to the V between my thighs. Only at midnight did I allow myself to go into my bedroom, take off the skirt and knickers I’d worn during the day and slip into tight, slimline black slacks with nothing underneath. One glance in the mirror was enough to be sure it showed, with my bottom cheeks bare and round underneath the thin cotton, and the shape of my sex embarrassingly obvious at the front.
Anyone who saw me would know I had no panties, which made me hesitate, but after half an hour of indecision I told myself to be bold, and out I went. It was still a little early, but I drove out of town, to a big service station beside the road leading up over the Pennines. I knew it was never very busy in the evening, and sure enough, as I pulled in, only one other car was there, a souped-up cabriolet driven by overexcited teenagers.
They seemed to take forever, laughing among themselves and going back and forth from the booth to fetch cigarettes and chocolates, until I was cursing them under my breath. All the while I’d been pretending to have trouble with my petrol cap, and praying nobody would offer to help me. They didn’t, and as soon as the other car had roared off I twisted it open, only to discover that the attendant was looking right at me.
I knew why, or I thought I did. The teenagers had been in my favourite spot and he could see me, with the light full on me from behind. His eyes were right on me, and, although I dared not turn around, I could just imagine them lingering on the contours of my bottom, so obviously bare beneath my slacks. I didn’t know what to do, too embarrassed to simply drive away, while indulging my nasty habit with him watching was absolutely out of the question.
In the end I put in a miserable two pounds’ worth of petrol and endured both the funny look he gave me when I paid and the feel of his eyes on my bottom as I walked back to my car. I was blushing as I drove away, with my hands shaking on the wheel, but I was determined not to give in. There was another service station a couple of miles south on the main trunk road, bigger and busier, but maybe I’d be lucky.
I was. A large van had pulled into the second pump from the right, allowing me to take the perfect place and shielding me from the attendant. My heart was racing as I slipped the nozzle from its holster and into the mouth of my petrol tank, and faster still as I surreptitiously closed my thighs around the thick, rubbery hose. Ready, I made myself wait, just a second, and squeezed.
As the vibrations hit me I felt my mouth become wide in pleasure, and shut it just in time to prevent myself getting caught as the van driver appeared around the front of his vehicle. That gave me a start, but he took no notice of me whatsoever, and as he pulled out my pleasure was already rising towards ecstasy. I was going to do it, I really was, to make myself come with a petrol hose, after so long. That was enough, no fantasy needed, just the way I was, knickerless under my slacks, the hose pumping between my tightly clenched thighs, the vibrations running through my sex, masturbating in public, as usual, but this time to orgasm, my pleasure rising, my muscles beginning to tighten, my bottom squeezing, my eyes closed in bliss, delicious little shocks starting in my pussy …
… and nothing, as the pump cut out, just seconds before ecstasy overwhelmed me. My eyes came open and I looked down, the thick green hose between my thighs blurred, my legs weak with the approach of orgasm, my hands shaking so hard I could barely put the pump back and twist the petrol cap into place. I paid. I drove away. I stopped, in a lay-by just a few hundred yards down the road, because I quite simply was not fit to drive.
I’d been so close, right on the edge of orgasm, yet I had been denied that final push to take me over the brink. Maybe, just maybe, I’d have made it if the van driver hadn’t appeared. Maybe, just maybe, I’d have made it if I hadn’t put two pounds’ worth in already. It would work, another time, that I knew, but it was no help. I couldn’t wait, my frustration too strong to be denied.
Still trembling badly, I wound my seat back a little. Just yards outside my window cars were belting past, and yet I couldn’t stop myself. My legs became wide, my hand pressed to the V of my crotch, and I was masturbating, not even subtly, but sighing as I rubbed myself through my slacks, alternately squeezing and spreading my thighs, my eyes shut, one hand to my breasts to tease and stroke my nipples, my mouth wide in pleasure, and then in ecstasy as I brought myself to a shuddering, wriggling climax that left me with spots dancing in front of my eyes and my head spinning and dizzy.
That was the first time I had ever come outdoors, at least alone, which is very different from being in the arms of a lover. Afterwards I was telling myself that it had been a stupid thing to do, especially right beside the main road, and that I would never do it again. You see, the great thing about the petrol pump was that it looked quite innocent, except only that last crucial moment, and I’d spent ages teaching myself to look as unflustered as possible as I came. In the lay-by I’d looked anything but innocent, with my legs wide open and playing with my breasts as I rubbed myself. If a patrol car had happened to pull in at the wrong moment to see what the matter was I’d have been in serious trouble. Or it might have been a lorry driver, or a group of teenage tearaways out for fun, like the ones I’d seen earlier.
I knew I’d be back, but I promised myself I’d be more careful. I was, and I wasn’t. The next occasion came quite unexpectedly, when I was asked to drive the departmental minibus to take some students down to York. I agreed to do it, and was telling myself I would be good as I drew in to the very same service station at which I’d come so close before. It was impossible to be good. Just taking the pump in my hand sent a shiver the length of my spine, and watching the way the hose moved had me squeezing my thighs together.
None of the students were looking as I stood behind the van, blocked from sight. It was too
much for me. Full of apprehension and guilty excitement, I moved a little closer, allowing the thickness of the hose to press into my sex as I squeezed the trigger home. I was in heaven immediately, but, with the need to keep a straight face and my concern for the students and others using the garage, I knew I would never reach that magic moment. Sure enough, I didn’t, but I rode my ecstasy for the full time it took me to fill up that big, big tank, which left me dizzy with pleasure and need.
Naturally, I couldn’t do what I wanted to in front of my students, so I was left smouldering gently for the rest of the day. Only that evening did I manage to come, and, as I lay in the warm stillness of my bedroom afterwards, my head was full of plans for that ultimate moment of satisfaction. With my car I might make it, but with the minibus I would definitely make it, while it also provided so much more shelter. All I needed to do was find some excuse to book it out for the day, on a trip long enough to make sure I came back late at night and so could replace the petrol I’d used in my own special way.
Which I did. My trip took me up into the Highlands, a beautiful drive, with my sense of anticipation rising all day, until, by the time I was ready to start back, I could barely contain myself. I’d planned which petrol station to use, but I never made it that far. With the tank just on the red I came across an empty station on an empty road, and I took my opportunity.
It was perfect. The attendant was dozing in his booth and there was nobody else around. Now I was going to do it, and just that knowledge was enough to have me shaking as I unlocked the petrol cap, full of guilt and arousal, knowing that this time there was no stopping, no going back. I slid out the pump from its holster and pushed the nozzle deep. I pressed close to the hose, pushing the thick, hard rubber tight against the crotch of my favourite black slacks, beneath which I had no knickers. I squeezed the trigger and closed my eyes, knowing exactly what was going to happen.
The moment the vibrations started to run through my sex I knew I was there. I felt such a bad girl, so deliciously rude. Everyone at the university thought I was such a good girl, ever so diligent, always ready to help, working hard, far too shy and far too serious to even think about men. The last bit was true, anyway. Who needs men? I didn’t, not with a two-inch-thick rubber hose pumping petrol between my thighs.
It was going to happen, my excitement rising, my thighs tight around the hose, my head full of naughty thoughts, and I was there, biting my lip to stop myself crying out as wave after wonderful wave of pure bliss swept over me, on and on until my knees gave way and I was forced to stop. I sank down, leaning against the side of the minibus, my head spinning with reaction to what I’d done, my hand still grasping the trigger, pumping petrol.
I became an addict. There’s no other word for it. Again and again I would go out, with my car, with the minibus, even with friends’ cars once or twice, to run through that same delightful routine: a quiet service station, the hose between my thighs, the trigger squeezed, and taken to heaven by the vibrations.
I was always very careful to keep my nasty little habit a secret, but the more I did it the more I needed it, and the more I did it the less exciting it became each time. I understood full well the path I was on, and I did my best to restrict myself to doing it once a week and to resist the urges of my imagination, which was demanding that I try new and more exciting routines, more exciting, and more daring. I tried to resist, but I failed.
The first temptation I gave in to was to do it with the hose pressed to the front of my knickers, a small thing maybe, but not when it means standing on the forecourt of a petrol station with my skirt bunched up at the front so that I could press the hose to myself. I’d been thinking about it for a while, and how easy it would be in a knee-length skirt. And it was. It was also delightful, with the feel of my bare thighs and the knowledge of how unmistakably rude I would look restoring all the pleasure I’d lost through overfamiliarity. That was one cool summer dawn beside a road in Wales, and it was the first of many times.
The second temptation I gave in to was the urge to feel the touch of the hose on my bare flesh. That was at a petrol station outside Rugby, the first time, when the thrill of pressing the hose to the front of my knickers had begun to fade. I reasoned that, if I dared to push up the front of my skirt to get at my knickers, then why not do it with no knickers underneath? After all, I wouldn’t be showing anything else. But I was, flashing my bare sex for just an instant as I adjusted myself, and that made it better still, giving me one of the best orgasms I’d ever had. Once I’d done it bare, there was no going back.
The third temptation I gave in to was to let somebody else see. I’d fought it hard, for two long years, scared by the power of my own needs as much as by the possible consequences of my action. By then I’d taken to doing bare every time, and as often as not after a little routine. I would choose my time and choose my place, then drive out late at night as always. I would be dressed in a sensible, knee-length skirt, stay-up stockings and no knickers. Just being bare was wonderful, and sometimes I would even stop just to take my knickers off under my skirt, even when it wasn’t a petrol day.
That was what I did on the day it happened. I was travelling from London to Carlisle in my shiny new BMW, a treat I’d bought myself on getting my new job as a senior researcher with my company. For some reason I was feeling aroused anyway, and as I watched the petrol gauge drop slowly down I decided to tease myself. After pulling off at the next services, I parked in the far corner and slipped off my knickers under my skirt. I had lunch there, enjoying the naughty feeling of having my bare bottom sitting on the chair and knowing that I was bare.
By the time I left the services I was ready, and I stayed ready as I drove north, all the time imagining the pleasure of the climax I was going to give myself that evening when I filled up the car. Had I stayed on the motorway I’d have been in Carlisle far too early, so I turned off beyond Lancaster and threaded my way north through the Lake District. For dinner, I ate at country pub, again with my bottom bare on the seat beneath me, and, not long after I left, the warning for low fuel came on.
For me, that was like a switch. With some women it might be the sight of their favourite film star, for others a pair of muscular buttocks packed into tight jeans. For me, it is the moment that little yellow light comes on and I know that it is time to masturbate. Now was no exception, even though it was a little early. I pulled off the road just a few miles later, at a tiny station high on a hillside. It looked as if it hadn’t changed since the 70s, just two pumps, side by side, with no canopy, and a wooden stack in which the attendant was seated, resting the plaster cast that encased a broken leg on a chair. The thought came to me immediately. He could see me. He could hardly fail to see me, but I was quite safe. After all, what was he going to do?
What he was going to do was enjoy the view. I knew he was right immediately I went to the booth to buy a packet of mints. He was young, handsome, friendly in an easygoing way, and yet as I walked back to the car his eyes were on my bottom, watching the way my bare cheeks moved under my skirt. He knew I was bare, I was sure of it, and that alone was a delicious thrill.
Turning to find him smiling at me was more delicious still, and, with my heart in my throat, I decided to do it. I waved, making it quite clear I knew he was watching. I opened my petrol cap and took the pump from the holster, as I had done so often before, but now knowing a man was watching, and my sense of rising anticipation was stronger even than it had been those first few times.
Had I not been so turned on I could never have done it, but I was, and I did. I made sure he was watching. I took hold of the front of my dress. I lifted it, deliberately showing my legs, my stocking tops, my bare thighs and my bare sex, naked and pink in the fluorescent light, bare to his pop-eyed gaze.
That alone was enough to leave me determined to make myself come. I was shaking terribly, but I took the pump and eased it between my legs, showing off with a little wriggle as I made myself comfortable with the hose pressed deep
into the groove of my sex. I kept my skirt up, too, so that he could see, every rude detail as I began to do it, squeezing the trigger and rubbing myself on the hose as that wonderful, throbbing vibration began.
Now he was really staring, with his mouth open wide, and that only encouraged me. I began to let my feelings show on my face, maybe even putting it on a little as I wriggled and squirmed against the hose. There was nothing fake about my pleasure, though, my orgasm already rising in my head as I thought of what I was doing: not just masturbating in public, but doing it bare, and in front of a man.
I came, screaming out my pleasure as it hit me, with the hose pumping hard between my thighs, my whole body tight with ecstasy, my sex on fire. He was staring as hard as ever, and, as that glorious orgasm tore through, I locked eyes with him, watching him as he watched me come, holding his gaze until at last I could take it no more and slumped down, spent.
Only then did I realise that I hadn’t really thought it through, letting myself get carried away in my excitement. What I’d meant to do was come, then cover myself up, perhaps give him a final teasing wave, and leave. Unfortunately it was out of the question.
I’d come in front of him, and my tank was full of petrol, petrol I hadn’t paid for. Forty-two pounds and thirty-eight pence the pump showed, forty-two pounds and thirty-eight pence I was going to have to pay him. That meant walking across the forecourt, handing my debit card to the man I had just masturbated in front of, waiting for him to put it through his machine, signing for the payment and walking back to the car.
Never, ever have I been so embarrassed, my face burning with blushes as I walked, acutely aware not only of what I’d done, but of how I was, and how he knew I was, bare under my skirt. I wondered if he’d say something, maybe call me a slut or a tease, maybe demand that I lift my skirt again and show off for him. He just smiled, which is why he is now my husband, and tonight he is taking me out, to this little petrol station I know just a few miles up the A32.