Late Night Gas Station Shenanigans

In a previous story (“Graveyard Shift”), I described a cunni/jackoff session when I worked the late shift at a gas station and how that shift was shut down not long after. I couldn’t say I cared all that much - the hours obviously were inconvenient and the pay was garbage. I soon found another (admittedly low-paying!) job at a book distributor but was going to be a bit short on cash until it started. The manager of the gas station did me a favour and got me a short-term fill-in position at another station the chain owned on Lonsdale Ave. in North Vancouver. It was out-of-the-way for me, but beggars can’t be choosers.

One night, maybe about 2 or 3 in the morning after the steady flow of taxis had died off and Lonsdale was pretty much quiet, I was out on the lot deciding how I was going to tackle my clean-up duties. A car pulled up to the pumps and the driver asked for a fill. Both the driver and passenger were quite good-looking females and were about my age or slightly older. They told me they were from East End Vancouver and had been drinking with some old friends at the Avalon beer parlour not that far away from the gas station. The driver was fine, but her passenger seemed a bit wasted. We made polite conversation and I asked them if they’d like to smoke a doobie. After we finished, the passenger asked me get the bathroom key as she needed to take a piss. I went back into the station, got the key and gave it to her. While she went and did her business, the driver paid me for the gas and asked me if I’d give them a joint for later. I said half-kiddingly that the price would be a blow job. To my surprise, she said, “I’m not sucking you off, but I’ll jerk you off inside.” Fine by me, and in we went to the station office.

I turned off the inside lights and rolled a reefer by the dim street light. I gave it to her and she told me to drop my pants. Standing behind the counter I did so and my thick, curved cock sprang out at full, throbbing attention. The driver knelt beside me and took my meat in her right hand. She started a slow jacking, with a perfect grip (not so tight that I’d cum too fast and tantalizingly gentle). She skillfully worked me up and giggled a bit when I started dripping pre-cum. The slick fluid lubed my shaft and my breathing got heavier. The woman gripped me a bit tighter and jacked my cock harder and faster. When she started rubbing my drawn-up balls with her other hand, my cock exploded!

Rope after rope of thick, hot jizz erupted from me and I moaned as the supreme pleasure pulsed through me. She directed my cumshot upwards and I wound up hosing down the side of the cash register. She milked me dry and I admired the huge, gooey mess we’d produced. I recovered from my orgasm a bit and got some paper towel that she used to wipe off her hands and my-still hard cock. Just as I’d pulled up my pants and wiped up the cum-lake dripping down the cash register, a cop car pulled into the lot and up to the station door. The cop got out and motioned me to open the door.

When I did, he said he’d noticed the office lights were off and decided to check things out. “I doubt your manager would appreciate you having customers inside this time of night. And I’m not an idiot; you two reek of marijuana and it smells like you guys just had sex in here. I’ll be back in 15 minutes and that car better not be here.” With that, he jumped into his cruiser and left, the passenger came out from the bathroom area, the women got into their car and left, and I was alone at the scene of the crime. The cop drove by a little later and gave me a wave.

The night shift attendant was responsible for giving the bathrooms a bit of a cleaning before the shift ended. I did the men’s can first and it was no big deal, but I was horrified and pissed off when I went into the women’s facilities. The passenger had completely trashed the place, with toilet paper and tampons strewn all over. On the walls and mirror were written in several places in some kind of indelible ink “CLARK PARK GANG.” Now there had been a pretty well-known “gang” by that name in East Van, but it had supposedly been smashed by a vigilante squad of big, baseball-bat wielding Vancouver police after the Rolling Stones “riot” a couple of years before. I left a note telling the station manager he’d have to bring in a commercial cleaning outfit for the women’s toilet and left when my shift was over at 8 a.m. I never heard a word about it up until I quit to start the book warehouse job.