Borrowed Equipment

Borrowed Equipment

A young man moving to college has a very unusual encounter one night, at a rest stop on a deserted stretch of Interstate highway.

It was a dark and stormy night...

Well, okay, it was dark, but it wasn't stormy.

It was late one night, on a deserted stretch of Interstate highway in the middle of nowhere, that the fates decided they were bored. They must have been looking for some fun, and by chance or design, I became their plaything.

I was moving to go to college, a long cross-country trip. It was nearly midnight, and after all the coffee I'd had to keep awake behind the wheel, I really needed to pee. It was one of those burst-your-bladder types of feelings. When the rest stop came into view, it was a godsend. I pulled into the dimly-lit parking area, noted that it looked reasonably safe, especially for a strapping young man like me, and crawled painfully out of the car. The slam of the door seemed to echo through the night, easily overpowering the low rumble of a diesel engine idling as a truck-driver caught a few winks.

The chill of the night air sent a shiver up my spine; in retrospect, it may have been a subconscious omen, warning me of what lay ahead. Unfortunately, my bladder took charge. I walked quickly into the low building, a tiny building with barely enough space for two rest rooms and a drinking fountain. Oh yes, I mustn't forget the obligatory state map, with the 'You are here' arrow and highlights of why this state, of all the states in the Union, was the ideal spot for recreation, relaxation, and darned-near anything else someone might think of. As I hurried into the relief stop of the men's room, I barely noticed the 'Out of Order' sign on the door to the ladies room.

The men's room was a dismal, dirty, dingy little room for which the old-fashioned signs 'Clean Rest Room' would hardly apply. Tiny was appropriate; for such a backwater facility, it had only the barest of accomodations — a rust-stained sink, a urinal, a toilet crouching behind a rusty metal divider, and the required paper towel dispenser and overflowing wastebasket. Despite the conditions in the room, it had the one thing I needed — a urinal. Though it was dirty, with the acrid smell of urine wafting from the splattered yellow spots on the floor and wall, it was relief. I quickly unzipped my pants, extracted my 'Johnson', and felt a shudder as if my bladder were crying out in pleasure. The stream seemed to go on forever; I knew as it dribbled to a halt that if I hadn't stopped, I might have caused myself an embarrassment I hadn't experienced since my early grade school days.

I gave my hands a cursory rinse; as I pulled down the handle of the paper dispenser, I sighed to myself. I had another six or seven hours ahead of me, and I hoped that future rest rooms would be at least a little cleaner. Certainly, they would be bigger.

I walked easily out of the restroom. For the briefest of moments, I actually considered getting a drink from the fountain; sanity prevailed when I recalled the state of the rest room. I turned back toward the door, toward a brief stretch of my legs in the chilly night air, followed by more hours of staring through the bug-splattered windshield at the endless stream of white paint stripes.

I almost ran over her, so distracted was I.

She was a completely unremarkable woman, perhaps ten years older than myself. Her brown hair was mussed and not at all styled; if she'd been driving as I'd been, that was understandable. Her face was, in a word, average. Not that she was ugly, but she certainly would never have won any beauty contests. Her light blue windbreaker was pulled tightly around her body; she had what would in earlier times be called a Renaissance figure.

What struck me most, however, was the expression on her face. She had a look of desperation. There was no other word adequate to describe it. I knew the look well; I'd had it just moments before.

She dodged around me after a few quick stutter steps, the awkward dance of people who are in each other's way and are trying to avoid embarrassment by stepping aside. I finally halted to end the comical scene, and she stepped around me, headed with a determined look toward the ladies room. I didn't even glance behind myself; the car and the endless road awaited me.

Her cry of anguish stopped me short, my hand resting on the door to push it open. I turned at the sound. She cried again. "Oh, no!" She was tugging at the door of the ladies room, but it wasn't budging. The 'Out of Order' sign hung mockingly, taunting her and her obvious need to relieve herself.

She glanced at me. "Um, is there anyone, um, in there?" She nodded toward the men's room. I could tell she was profoundly embarrassed to have to ask, but her need for relief overrode her sense of decorum.

I shook my head. "Nope. It's all yours."

With an audible sigh, she gingerly tugged open the door to the men's room. I turned back toward my car, my duty as a rescuer completed. Or so I thought. Within moments, she was back in the tiny lobby. Now, I could tell her desperation had reached new heights. "It's ... broken!" she wailed.

I knew in a heartbeat what she meant. The toilet in the men's room, the only other source of relief for her overly-full bladder, was not going to work. I shrugged; there wasn't anything I could do. She needed relief, and couldn't get it. "I wish I could help, but..." I let the sentence hang; there was absolutely nothing I could do.

Or so I'd thought. Her face brightened. "Oh, would you?" She waved her hand and said some strange phrase, then wheeled and marched back into the men's room.

I stood for a moment, puzzled. Her actions had made no sense at all. I turned back toward the door, and as I pushed it open, I automatically reached into my pocket for my car keys.

It took nearly a second for my brain to realize that something was wrong. The sensation in my pocket didn't seem at all familiar. I paused, and let my hand push my pocket toward my 'Johnson'; perhaps it was snagged in my shorts again. A quick shuffle would straighten it all out.

You can imagine the sensation of utter horror when my hand touched — nothing! In actuality, it touched something, but it wasn't anything that I'd ever experienced. Desperately, my hand groped around my crotch, searching for my familiar one-eyed pocket snake. It couldn't have just vanished — it had to be there! But it wasn't. What was worse, it felt like it was — a slit! My wong was gone, replaced by what felt, through the fabric of the pocket, like a girl's pussy! I craned my neck forward as my left hand dropped, joining in the search for the missing pecker!

I let a tiny cry of despair escape my lips; it simply couldn't be stopped. All I could see in my crotch was a flatness, interrupted by the distinct outline of my hand in my pocket. My willy was gone! A sudden chill swept up and down my spine; what if this weren't some kind of bizarre dream?

As my pocketed hand continued to grope, I felt a sudden shiver of the most wonderful pleasure I'd ever known. My hand, prying blindly in my crotch, had just stumbled across the nub that was a woman's pleasure center. I moved my hand, horrified at what I'd just felt, but it brushed the magic button again, and another shiver of delight coursed through my groin. My mind raced, trying to understand what had happened, while my senses cried for more of this alien pleasure. Of its own volition, my hand reached more and more, stroking the pleasure center, moving faster and faster, as a wonderful warmth built within my crotch. I felt a wet burning heat, a moist rippling of pleasure, as my hand continued to rub the clit in my crotch. The pleasure was building quickly as my brain, unused to this peculiar female sexual stimulation and driven by my teen-aged male libido, drove me quickly up toward the peak of sensual pleasure. I wanted to experience this new sensation, to drink of the forbidden fruit of a woman's orgasm.

The sound of the door squeaking open behind me snapped me out of my uncontrollable and near-frenzied activity. I turned, and felt my cheeks burn as the woman came out of the rest room. "Thanks," she said with a smile. Her face no longer held the intense need. Then she glanced, and saw my hand in my pocket. She smiled again, then waved her hand, repeating the strange phrase.

My hand was pushed rudely aside as my dick reappeared. I glanced down, and saw the familiar bulge. I glanced back up, and saw her grin. "Oh, somebody's been a naughty boy!" With a swivel of her hips in a purely seductive manner, she turned toward the door and sauntered out toward her car. I stood, frozen, not knowing what to say.

As I sank into the bucket seat of my Camaro, I realized what she'd done. With no other alternative, she'd borrowed my equipment so she could pee. Nothing more. I watched as her car accelerated away, the taillights growing more faint and smaller as the car carried the woman further from that strange encounter. And I sat, crying in frustration; I'd been so close to an experience that I would have never forgotten.

But it was not to be. The fates played their cruel game, and somewhere, they mocked me with their laughter.


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This story is 1672 words long.