The pitstop has a country dustbowl ascetic as I pull over, my needle as red as my bank balance.
Skirt hiked, buttons untethered, nipples evident atop my swelling bosom; all offered as negotiation beneath my inviting smile.
With my best “lost little girl” voice I enquire about “what arrangement might be made” as my finger twirls playful amongst trimmed and coiffed auburn strands.
He offers to deposit 10 litres in my tank if I’ll let him splash his milky kindness in my personal repository.
I counter with hand pumping his hose.
We settle on slurping crude juice from his nozzle.
