Photo Op

by Cal Y. Pygia

 

Stanley Lewis pulled his Toyota Corolla into the Arco gas station, parking behind the red Mustang convertible, the driver of which, a leggy blonde in a mini-skirt, was refueling her vehicle. Stanley had been driving all morning, having started in Kingman, Arizona, completing the final leg of his trip from Farmersville, Kansas, to Las Vegas, Nevada. He was hot. He was tired. He welcomed the opportunity for a little rest, especially when such a gorgeous babe as the leggy blonde gave him something worth looking at while he relaxed. Reclining his seat, he smiled as the blonde glanced at him. He'd expected her to ignore him. When, instead, she smiled back, showing perfect white teeth between her glossy pink lips, Stanley's heart fluttered, and his pulse raced.

It was unusually windy, and Stanley noticed the way that the breeze played with the hem of the blonde's skirt, causing the garment to flutter against her thighs and, once or twice, to blow upward, revealing a glimpse of the smooth, creamy-pink flesh between her knees and her hips. Unfortunately, the wind hadn't blown the skirt high enough to disclose the young woman's panties, but Stanley watched closely, waiting and hoping that his vigilance would be rewarded by a glimpse of the silk or satin underwear the blonde babe no doubt wore beneath the scant skirt. Somehow, Stanley knew that she didn't wear cotton panties. A babe like this would wear silk, satin, or¾ he smiled at the thought¾ nothing at all!

From Kansas to Nevada, Stanley had snapped photographs of points of interest and scenic views, but he hadn't shot anything as interesting or as scenic as the leggy blonde in the short skirt who was pumping gas in front of him, smiling her dazzling white smile and exhibiting her tan, shapely legs. He wished he hadn't packed his camera. The greatest photo op wasn't the Grand Canyon or the Las Vegas Strip; it was this blonde bombshell. He shrugged. At least, he could enjoy watching her. If he couldn't photograph her, he could damn well commit the sight of her gorgeous face and her splendid body to memory.

The blonde, who had been facing Stanley, stepped over the hose that stretched between her car and the gas pump, revealing a long stretch of thigh, and stood with her back toward her ogling admirer. She'd changed her position on purpose, Stanley thought, giving him he chance to appreciate her round bottom, just as he'd admired her bountiful bosom, narrow hips, and long, tapering legs. Stanley smiled, wondering whether the blonde was a chorus girl or an exotic dancer. Maybe she was a stripper. She sure knew how to put on a show.

Another breeze ruffled her mini-skirt. It flounced about her upper thighs, but, alas, failed to lift the thin material high enough to permit Stanley a view of the blonde's panties. He was almost positive they weren't cotton. They had to be silk or satin. He was dying to know which it was and whether the panties were briefs, bikinis, or (please, God!) a pair of thongs. Maybe, they were even crotchless!

For the first time ever, Stanley was glad the price of gasoline had skyrocketed. With the taxes that the federal, state, and local governments insisted upon levying on gasoline, and because of OPEC's refusal to sell more than a minimum number of barrels of its petroleum and because of American oil companies' greed, gas prices had soared to the point that it cost thirty or forty dollars and took up to ten minutes to fill a tank. High gas prices gave Stanley an extended view of the blonde's ass while the breeze, playing with the hem of her mini-skirt, further teased Stanley with glimpses of her sleek, firm thighs. Again, he wished he hadn't packed his camera. It was a shame to miss a photo op like this!

Would her panties be black? Red? Pink? Orange? Lavender? Blue? Green? Would they be festooned with ribbons and decorated with lace? Maybe they were monogrammed with her initials.

Stanley's cock stiffened and swelled as he thought of the beautiful blonde's ample breasts, narrow hips, firm, compact ass, and long, tapering legs. He couldn't help but get hard as he imagined the silk or satin panties she wore beneath the fluttering mini-skirt. He willed the breeze to blow harder. He prayed that God would grant his wish to see the blonde's panties. He shifted on the seat, his erection uncomfortable inside the confines of his tight jeans. He wished he could whip it out, here and now, and masturbate while he watched the young woman, but he dared not. There were other people around, after all, and, for all he knew, the premises were under surveillance by video cameras. He dared not take out his cock¾ but there was no reason he couldn't massage it through the heavy denim of his jeans. He placed his hand over the mound beneath his zipper and squeezed his thick cock and the taut clump of his balls, rubbing his genitals with his thumb and fingers. His chest expanded, and he gritted his teeth as a flood of euphoria swept through him, his loins awash with pleasure and excitement. A soft moan escaped his lips.

The blonde stepped back over the hose. Apparently, her tank was full and the pump had shut itself off, because she removed the nozzle and replaced it in the lever on the side of the pump. Then, she screwed the gas cap back in place. She gave Stanley another bright smile.

Oh, don't go! Stanley thought. He was about ready to come. It wasn't fair for her to just go off and leave him with an erection.

A sudden gust of wind blew hard across the gas station's lot, and the blonde's mini-skirt flew up, around her hips.

Stanley's eyes widened. His mouth gaped.

In place of the cleft of the female sex, the blonde had a cock and a pair of balls beneath her¾ or his¾ neatly trimmed pubic hair! Despite her lovely face, her bountiful breasts, her firm, round ass, and her smooth, tapering legs, she was a he! This was the first transsexual Stanley had ever encountered, other than through a photograph, and he wasn't sure what to think or how to feel. Should he be repulsed? Attracted? Excited? Did the fact that he had been aroused by such a creature mean that he was gay?

The question as to how he should feel was answered by his cock, which, despite the presence of the blonde's cock and balls¾ or, perhaps, because of them¾ not only remained rigid and swollen but also stiffened further, becoming rock hard. He was obviously excited by the gorgeous shemale. Was he gay?

The shemale didn't force the skirt down. She let it flutter about her hips, exposing her male genitals. She wasn't ashamed of them. She was proud of her cock and balls. She was pleased to exhibit them to Stanley or anyone else who happened to glance her way. Stanley supposed that he should be turned off by the incongruity of the blonde's feminine good looks, her womanly breasts and ass, her long, sleek legs, and her manly cock and balls. He supposed he should be find such a combination of sexual characteristics bizarre and disgusting. He supposed he should think the blonde beauty an ugly monstrosity. He didn't. Instead, he found her extraordinarily beautiful and sexy. If that meant that he was gay, he thought, so be it.

Stanley continued to rub his thick, rigid prick through the tight denim of his jeans. Another soft moan escaped his lips as he felt the rush or orgasm; his penis convulsed inside his pants, spewing his thick, warm semen inside his briefs, over his pubes. It was the best, most satisfying orgasm he'd ever had. He had no doubt he'd have others, equally satisfying¾ many, many others¾ as he remembered the gorgeous blonde with the fabulous, feminine figure and the manly cock and balls.

The wind subsided, and the blonde's skirt fell back into place around her thighs, concealing her cute little penis and the small pouch of her scrotum. She smiled broadly, flashing her white teeth between her luscious pink lips, and, with a final wave, climbed into her Mustang and drove away, leaving Stanley with but one regret.

He really wished he hadn't packed his camera. After all, a photo op like this one didn't come along every day.

  

  

  

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