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A short, short story
Motorway service stations are what they are: a last resort. The petrol gauge is well and truly in the red. Your thirst is well and truly in the red. And it has been far too long since breakfast. Assuming that you remembered to have breakfast.
I had been to Glasgow for a writers’ festival. I had left again shortly before nine on the Monday morning, hoping to miss both the early traffic and the mid-morning departures that had themselves been trying to avoid the early traffic. But I don’t think that you can miss the traffic these days. There’s just so much of it. And, when the weather’s bad, it just seems to get worse.
At the service station my intention had been to ‘splash and dash’. But, having topped up my car’s fuel tank, I decided that a coffee would not be such a bad idea. And then, when the girl at the coffee counter asked if I would like ‘something to go with that’, the prospect of a Danish pastry suddenly seemed more than just appealing.
‘She got you too,’ the woman said, as I edged away from the counter looking for somewhere to sit.
‘They don’t make their money on the coffee,’ the woman said. ‘Not really. The profit is in the extras.’
She had a point. I knew how these things worked. But what the fuck?
‘You can sit here if you like,’ she said.
It was the easy option. And she didn’t seem like a nutter. In fact, she reminded me very much of one of my mother’s sisters.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘And where are you off to today?’
‘South,’ she said. ‘And you?’
‘Yeah. South. All the way to London.’
‘Are you planning on doing it in one bite?’ she asked.
‘I had been. But now, with this weather, I’ll probably take two bites at it.’
She nodded. ‘This rain is tiring, isn’t it? I think I’ll call it a day at Hattersley Services and get a room at The MotoLodge. There’s a bistro right next door that’s not too bad.’
‘That sounds like a plan,’ I said.
We chatted on about nothing in particular for a few minutes, and then she said that she had better get going.
‘I suppose so,’ I said. ‘Who knows, I might see you at Hattersley.’
She smiled. ‘Who knows?’ she said. ‘Travel safely.’
When we got to the front doors, the rain seemed to be coming down as heavily as ever, and we both hoisted our umbrellas and scurried for our cars. Funnily enough, hers, a bright yellow BMW, was parked just two slots from where mine was.
It was about four o’clock by the time I reached Hattersley Services, and the rain had eased off a bit. Nevertheless, I parked as close as I could to the MotoLodge’s front door and, much to my surprise, my coffee-companion’s yellow BMW was already there. And, a minute or so later, so was she – letting herself into my passenger seat.
‘Gosh, you didn’t waste any time,’ I said.
She smiled. ‘I got bored,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I planted my foot and hoped for the best. Now … how do you feel about sharing?’
‘Sharing canlı bahis şirketleri what?’ I asked.
‘I just got the last room,’ she said. ‘It seems that we’re not the only people deciding to break our journey today. But I thought that we could share. There’s a double bed and a single bed. You can have the double. I don’t need a lot of space.’
‘Share. Gosh. Umm … are you …?’
‘Sure? Yes, I’m sure. I wouldn’t have suggested it otherwise.’
‘Gosh. Well …’
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s get our stuff inside. I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for another cup of coffee. Oh, and I’m Meg by the way. We didn’t really get that far this morning, did we?’
‘Jack,’ I said.
The room was like pretty much every other MotoLodge room I had ever seen. There was a double bed, a single bed that was set up as a sort of sofa, a desk, and that was about it. But it would do.
‘I find it’s best to travel prepared,’ Meg said. And, from out of a carrier bag, she produced a small jar of an up-market freeze-dried coffee and a mini vacuum flask filled with proper low-fat milk. ‘I should have brought some shortbread or something,’ she said.
‘I think we’ll get by,’ I told her.
After we had had our coffee, I said that I thought that I should probably have a quick shower. Meg said that she should too. ‘But maybe we should do it one at a time,’ she said. ‘It’s not a very big shower, is it?’ And she laughed.
Meg showered first, and then I had my shower. And, by the time that we had all of that out of the way, it was about five-thirty. ‘I take it this bistro place has a bar,’ I said.
‘In that case, perhaps I can invite you to join me for a sundowner.’
‘I don’t think the sun ever got up today,’ she said. ‘But, yes. Thank you. That sounds like a lovely idea.’
There was a covered walkway between the MotoLodge and the bistro, which was just as well because the rain was once again bucketing down. I, for one, was glad that I wasn’t out on the motorway, navigating my way around massive 18-wheelers and through walls of opaque spray.
Over a vodka and tonic and a pint of best bitter, I learned that Meg was an archaeologist who specialised in textiles. In fact, I got the distinct impression that she was the nation’s go-to girl when it came to ancient scraps of textile.
‘And you?’ she asked.
‘I’d like to claim that I’m a writer,’ I told her. ‘But most of my income comes from editing other people’s writing and doing a bit of teaching.’
‘I have a few young colleagues who could probably do with your help,’ Meg said. ‘When text-speak meets academia, the result is generally not pretty.’
We chatted on for a while and then we decided that we should probably get something to eat. It had been a long time since the mid-morning Danish pastries.
The food at the bistro was surprisingly good. Not good enough to challenge for a Michelin star or anything like that, but definitely canlı kaçak iddaa at the top end of pub grub. Meg had crispy-skinned fillet of salmon on noodles with a spicy coconut broth and a pea puree. I had oven-roasted lamb rump with a modern take on Hasselback potatoes, and char-grilled asparagus. We also managed to put a serious dent in a bottle of Cotes de Provence rosé.
After we had finished eating, we returned to the bar, where I had earlier spotted a bright red and chrome espresso machine. It was a nice way to round off a nice supper: good food, good wine, congenial company, and a cup of excellent coffee. And then it was back along the covered way to the MotoLodge. It was still raining. But the rain seemed to be getting lighter.
Back in our shared room, we both checked our emails. I had nothing that required immediate attention. And then Meg suggested that she might make first use of the bathroom. ‘By all means,’ I said. When she next appeared, she was wearing a sort of over-sized T-shirt. I couldn’t help noticing that, for a woman of some years, she had fabulous legs.
I took my turn in the bathroom, and when I came out again Meg was still sitting on the single bed that was doubling as a couch.
‘I was thinking,’ she said, ‘we could share the double bed. It’s not as if we are really strangers anymore. Up to you though.’
‘Which side would you like?’ I asked.
I don’t think that either of us had a plan. Well, I know that I didn’t have a plan. And I don’t think that Meg had a plan either. It was just a continuation of our evening together, an evening that neither of us could have foreseen.
A tentative cuddle led to a few equally tentative kisses, which led to some not quite so tentative kisses. And then, perhaps sensing that I might need some guidance, Meg raised the hem of her sleep shirt and then took my hand and placed it between her soft-yet-elegant thighs. From there, I was able to find my own way.
My very first sexual partner, Libby, had what might be described as a generously proportioned vulva: plump outer lips, flappy, butterfly-like inner lips, and a clit that felt as if it was as big as an acorn. Fucking Libby was endless delight. But sex was about the only thing that we agreed on and, after a couple of years, Libby drifted off and married a stock broker. There were several young ladies after Libby, but not one of them was Libby. If you see what I mean. And now here was Meg.
We had the lights turned off. And we were under the duvet. So it was down to my fingers to discover the lay of the land so to speak. And it was bliss indeed. It was like Libby all over again – except that Meg and I had already discovered that we could ‘get on’ with each other. Sex was just the icing on our unexpected cake.
Meg’s outer lips were like furry pillows. And her inner lips were already warm and slightly slick. I softly traced her cuntal valley until I arrived at her emerging acorn.
‘Oh, yes,’ she murmured. ‘Oh, canlı kaçak bahis yes.’
For several minutes, I gently explored her – what would she call it? Her vulva? Her pussy? Her quim? Or would she call it her cunt? For some reason, I thought the latter. ‘You might have to help me here,’ I said. ‘Where are my fingers?’
‘At the moment?’
‘At the moment.’
‘At the moment your fingers are setting my cunt on fire,’ she said.
‘Yes. That’s what I thought too,’ I said. ‘And such a lovely cunt. Such a lovely cunt.’
How far would we go? Meg had to be at least 20 years my senior. Was this going to be just a bit of a tickle? A finger fuck perhaps? Or were we going all the way? I decided to keep going until the lady told me to stop.
My pleasure finger entered her and caressed the tiny ridges of her hot, wet tunnel. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. And then she reached into my sleep shorts and freed my stiffening cock. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said again. ‘I want you inside me. Now.’
‘Your wish is my command,’ I told her. And I positioned myself between her spread thighs and entered her. Slowly. Gently. Respectfully. But Meg wasn’t too interested in slow and gentle, and she thrust with her hips, causing her delicious cunt to swallow at least two thirds of my cock.
It was surprising how long we managed to keep going. We changed positions several times. Meg enjoyed three or four mini orgasms. And then, doggy style, with me hanging onto Meg’s womanly hips, it was finally big bang time.
‘Well,’ Meg said, when everything had quietened down.
‘Very well, thank you,’ Meg said. And we both laughed.
I woke up several times that night, each time expecting to find that it had all been a dream and that I was all alone in an anonymous hotel room somewhere near the middle of nowhere in particular. But, each time, Meg was there – usually with areas of her soft bare flesh touching mine. And then it was morning.
I pulled back the edge of the curtain. The rain had stopped and there were patches of thin sunshine.
‘You can have first shower,’ Meg said. ‘I’ll make us some coffee.’
When we had both showered and dressed, we sat and sipped our coffee.
‘So … what happens now?’ I asked.
‘Well, we both get into our cars, and we take the motorway on ramp and continue on the last parts of our respective journeys – me to St Albans, you to Notting Hill. And it seems that today we will not have to cope with walls of water.’
‘That wasn’t quite what I meant,’ I said.
Meg smiled. ‘I know.’ And then she said: ‘I think I’m going to leave it up to you.’
She took the notepad that was on the narrow desk and scribbled down a phone number and an email address. ‘I think St Albans is probably only about a 40-minute drive from Notting Hill. And there are frequent trains from St Pancras. On the other hand, you might decide to remember only that, in a motorway services coffee shop, in the middle of a cloud burst, you met a mad woman, old enough to be your mother. And then, purely by chance, you ran into her again at a bistro somewhere just off the M1. As I say, I’m going to leave it up to you.’ And she kissed me gently and, once again, she reminded me of one of my aunts.
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