Sheila was 58, fit and excited. Her football-sized cunt was throbbing as she sat in the diner waiting for the other party to arrive. She discreetly part stood up and adjusted her seat and in doing so managed to spread the massive cushion like lips of her cunt wider, letting some air in and making it easier to sit on the hard plastic seat. She hoped her clever adaptation of panty liners within special panties did their usual job and prevented her profuse natural juices staining her shorts. Her brand new combat shorts had extremely wide legs, needed for both general aeration in the extreme heat and the fact that her minge expanded as other body parts did in hot weather.
Bruce, her 15-year-old mentally retarded son, played with his toy car on the table top, making whirring and rushing noises through his gaping misshapen teeth. Sheila reached across and wiped a green bogey from his prominent nose with her finger, releasing it onto a tissue nearby. She corrected the angle of his wire spectacles where she had knocked them askew.
The only other occupants in the road side truck stop was the owner Fat Bruce, a tall fat old man with stubble on his chin, hair sprouting from his armpits and poking from behind the grubby vest. His bald head was almost continually being scratched by his stubby hairy fingers as he chatted to a blousy bleached blonde called Slack Sheila, whilst leering down her front. She perched on a bar stool, smoking cheroots and frequently reaching under her mini skirt to flap away the odd fly. The white skirt matched her shirt that hung wide open and revealed her sagging tits, which swayed near down to her navel when she moved. Fat Bruce particularly liked the way her nipples were about an inch long and never decreased in size. They were mounted on two large low slung balloon like bosoms which were hung from her chest by two flattened sacks of stretch marked flesh.
“Flies bothering your fanny Slack?” he grinned.
She nodded and chuckled. “What else mate? Makes a change from you bothering it Fat Bruce. Anyway you know what I’m waiting for and what he likes.”
Fat Bruce grimaced and shrugged, having put up with the stench of her pussy since she had entered the diner. Flies were the main pest in the otherwise relatively clean diner. They would infiltrate the heavy fly curtain whenever someone entered or left.
Near the window, Bruce flapped at two buzzing round his chin and knocked his Pepsi glass over, spilling the remains. It startled Sheila, who was dreaming of the next few days and achieving one of her ambitions in life. Bruce slid to hide under the table, licking his fingers which in turn were scraping the Pepsi drips off the edge of the table. Sheila waited for Fat Bruce to bring over some paper towels and mop the slops and as he did so she smelt his raw rancid body and noticed the gravy stains on his vest and the less distinguishable marks down the front of his trousers.
He smiled pleasantly, second nature to this antipodean nation, during his chore - smelling the exotic, cheap, sticky aroma of Sheila’s perfume, so alien in this dusty outback location. He took a peek down the front gape of her sharply pressed khaki shirt, inwardly laughing at the pseudo country getup she affected. A silver-haired townie out to see what Donkey Bruce can do for her, he chuckled inwardly, but look at the size of those hooters. He’d love to sluice his gallons of cum into there before slicing her prissy middle aged little twat with his monster tool, he mused. Enormous shelves of pale flesh oozed loosely within the confines of Sheila’s city bought garment, creating a cavernous cleavage which reminded Fat Bruce of the arse crack of his mare. Only this morning he had fucked his diminutive cock into Big Sheila’s vagina, before he had ridden her the two kilometres into town to collect some mail.
“This is Dicksinard WA?” Sheila asked rather impatiently, looking at her watch, as Fat Bruce turned away, but not without peering down at Bruce, whose hands were now way up under his mother’s shorts.
“Yes, Dicksinard, Western Australia. 740 k from Perth and nowhere near anywhere else,” he chuckled, thinking Yep! Another sucker for Donkey Bruce’s charm.
There’s only one reason lone women turn up at this God-forsaken truck stop. This one was different in that she had the youth with her, but he was obviously baggage she couldn’t leave behind although a lot of lone men turned up here too. No - the youth wouldn’t be here for that.
“Your boy OK under there?” he asked.
“Yes - Bruce come out of there. The man is not angry about the drink. Bring him another one will you and me too, please,” she added, watching her retard son unfold his skinny frame and clamber back onto the seat and curl up grinning inanely at the fat man.
Fat Bruce did notice the impressive bulge in the boy’s shorts before turning away mystified. Bruce smelled his fingers and his mother grimaced good-naturedly at him. She had enjoyed his little play with the swell of her cunt lips as they bulged down her inner thighs. Sheila gazed out at the dusty lifeless scene outside the truck stop, thinking what a God-awful place to meet someone when it was so important that discretion was paramount. Still - these stupid outback folk wouldn’t have a clue as to her visit. Bruce murmured something into his chin and she smiled across at her son. He wouldn’t be needed for tonight bless him, she chuckled inwardly.
Fat Bruce took the drinks over and made no comment. On his return to the bar he whispered to Slack Sheila and they both cackled.
“Another city sucker out for some strong meat,” he murmured, coming round the front of the bar and sliding his pudgy fist inside Slack Sheila’s thighs.
“I hope you washed that after you’d touched up Big Sheila? She looks like she’s in season if you ask me,” she added when he stuck his finger straight into her pantyless crotch.
“So you’ve been in the stables this morning eh?” he asked impatiently as he fumbled amongst her labial folds. “And since when have you worried about a smelly finger?”
“She is my horse remember. Oh never mind but hang on I’ll have to undo the knot first. You have no idea how painful it can be when that skin is pinched,” Slack Sheila added impatiently, as his fingers foraged in the sticky mess of her cunt.
She twisted on her stool and parted her legs wide and delved into her crotch, pushing Fat Bruce’s mitt away. Grabbing the two floppy ends of her labia, which hung a good four inches from her puss pouch, she gently parted them and untangled the following layers to expose the glistening opening to her enormous gash. Old sperm, discharges and sweat intermingled in entrails like a spiders web across the cavernous orifice as she indicated with her blood shot eyes to Fat Bruce she was ready.
As her partner shoved his hand in again, there was this huge roaring motor sound outside and from a swirl of dust a massive rig emerged to a noisy hissing halt.
“Fuck, it’s Donkey Bruce,” Fat Bruce whispered, just as he had his fist inside Slack Sheila’s minge. “You know he’ll want to shaft you in the toilets to get in practice before doing her,” Fat Bruce scowled at Sheila, who was watching the front door with great interest. “He’ll want you straight away. Fuck! Just when I was starting to get a hard on.”
Slack Sheila shrugged her shoulders as his fist slopped out of her, thinking that Fat Bruce hadn’t had a hard-on for months, at least what she thought was a hard-on. She also watched the door with feverish anticipation. After the fly screen fluttered to virtual stillness again, she looked at the massive frame stood with just a few fronds of the screen draped delicately over his brawny brown shoulders and then straight to the lower spot and saw the thick tube running down the inside of Donkey Bruce’s jeans, just passing his knees. She licked her lips, squealched her purposely unwashed quim off the stool, winked at the rugged farmer and slunk out the back.
Sheila gaped in awe at the dark hulk stood in the doorway. He looked about 6 feet 12 inches tall and 5 feet wide. Bare arms stuck out from his sides at near 45 degrees, unable to hang straight due to the bulk of his pecs and adjacent biceps. The torn tee shirt was like a limp rag over the sweating glistening torso and his jeans were cinched tight under a distinct beer belly with a wide belt and huge silver buckle in the shape of a kangaroo. His face was hidden under the shady brim of his bush hat but she saw the glimmer of a smile and gleaming teeth. She ignored his lower carriage, the dusty frayed jeans and scrubby tan boots, not noticing the extra bulk of his left leg. She wasn’t interested in the content of Donkey Bruce’s trousers.
“You er ... are you Mr Donkey Bruce?” she asked quietly.
He stepped closer and doffed his hat letting the shock of black unruly hair fall round his round pugilistic face. She noticed the big front facing nostrils each side of his stubby bulbous nose, thick wide lips and those dark twinkling eyes.
“Yeah mate, but you can call me Donkey,” the Aboriginal guffawed loudly, sharing his mirth with Fat Bruce who was already waddling across with a large cola.
Donkey Bruce grabbed the drink and swallowed it in one as Sheila spoke.
“Can we go? Get away from here?” she whispered anxiously.
“Need to piss Donkey?” Fat Bruce asked slyly, having heard her. He winked towards the rear door. Sheila recoiled at the crudity, but Donkey just laughed.
.... There is more of this story ...