Highway Hustle

by Roland Graeme

  “Christ!” Donny screamed, as he blasted his full load of thick creamy sperm into me. “Oh, fucking Christ! Oh, fuck—fuck!”

  Each cry from his lips coincided with another burst of hot fuck juice from his balls, until there was so much of his warm jism in me that I could feel it oozing down around the length of his thrusting cockshaft and leaking sluggishly out of my wide-open asshole.

  He stopped ejaculating so violently inside me and he pulled out of my dripping, cum-flooded ass. I rolled over to throw my arms around him and pull him against me so we could kiss. That’s when I realized there were two pools of fresh, wet semen on the sheets. His—and mine. Without even being aware of it, so intense had been my sensations while he erupted inside me, I had lost my own wad while he was coming inside me.

  That was the first time Donny fucked me, but it was hardly the last. We became regular fuck buddies, who often got together for sex there at the farmhouse. We experimented, and we ended up doing just about everything which two men could do together in bed. Donny had such a strong sex drive that he was willing to give anything a try, and my lust matched his own. But I must admit that my favorite sex act was allowing him to fuck me, to pound and pulverize my asshole into submission with his big hard cock. Oh, how I loved that penis of his! Donny converted me to a devout phallus worshipper. No member of an ancient phallic cult could have been so dedicated to dick.

  “Cock whore,” he liked to taunt me, in the heat of passion, when he was hammering away at my hole. “Yeah, you’re nothing but a goddamn cock whore!”

  You bet I was! And I reveled in it!

  And I couldn’t stay mad at Beau, for having shot his mouth off. If it hadn’t been for his indiscretion, Donny might never have made a pass at me. And then I’d never have discovered what a prize stud Donny was.

  What a loss, what a deprivation, that would have been!

  Chapter Two: The Many Amenities Available at a No-Tell Motel

  It was a Saturday night, and I was at the motel, in the office, alone, working the graveyard shift. This was the price I paid for being part of a family business. Instead of going out drinking and raising hell with my buddies, I was stuck playing the role of the dutiful son, on the job, manning the front desk.

  I took care of a couple of travelers who checked in, but after sunset, predictably, things became dead and dull indeed. At least there was a small television set in the office. And I had my laptop with me, so I could kill time cruising the internet or looking at porn. I could also pull out my cell phone and do some swiping on a phone app on which guys looked for casual hookups. If I saw somebody I liked, I could engage him in conversation and maybe set up a meeting for some other night, when I’d be free.

  I could invite these men to the farmhouse, where we’re strip down and suck and fuck like animals, maybe without even bothering to exchange names. Sex—just sex—with no complications, no commitment, no nothing except for the mutual venting of lust and the expulsion of semen. That was the reality of gay life today. It was the same out here in the countryside as it was in the city, I suspected.

  Of course, most of these men I played around with didn’t live anywhere nearby. But—if I may be so immodest—I wasn’t bad-looking, and I had a good physique. It was surprising how many guys were willing to drive long distances just to hook up with me. And that worked both ways, of course. I wasn’t averse to doing some driving, myself, within reason, provided some hot sex was waiting for me at the end of the trip.

  I perked up a bit when a car pulled into our lot, well after dark. At last, there was something to relieve the boredom.

  And I perked up even more when the driver walked into the office. He was quite a good-looking dude. He was maybe thirty, which made him no more than ten years my senior, and he was not only immaculately well groomed, he was exceptionally well dressed—in an obviously expensive suit, complete with dress shirt, silk tie, and fancy leather shoes. I was intrigued by his tie clasp and cuff links. They were a matching set, heavy silver mounts with green gemstones set in them.

  He’d loosened the knot of his tie, but he hadn’t bothered to remove his suit jacket in his car. If he’d been driving for any length of time, then that suggested he was the kind of businessman who was so used to wearing a suit that he was comfortable wearing the jacket, even when he was officially off duty.

  “Good evening, sir,” I greeted him, in my best concierge manner.

  “Hi. I don’t have a reservation. But your ‘Vacancy’ sign is lit up,” he said.

  “Yes, sir, it sure is. We have rooms available.”

  “Good. I’m tired of driving. I thought I’d go on a little farther, but then I saw the exit sign, and I thought I’d take a chance of finding a room here for the night.”

  “We’ve got several.”

  “Good,” he repeated, in a weary-sounding tone of voice. “I’m tired—more than ready to knock off, for the night.”

  He checked in. I made a copy of his driver’s license and I ran his credit card, while he signed the register. His name, I saw, was Mirco Ericson. “Mirco” sounded a bit exotic, to me.

  “We’ll put you in Number Five, Mr. Ericson,” I told him.

  “Oh, call me Mirco,” he said. “And your name is—?”

  “Jason. Mirco is an unusual name.”

  “It’s Swedish. My family is Swedish, originally, on both sides. Real square heads, as they say. No offense, Jason, but you look kind of young to be in charge here,” he remarked.

  I smiled and shrugged. “No offense taken. But this is my family’s business. I’ve always helped out here, in one way or another. Including manning the office. You should’ve seen the look on some guests’ faces, years ago, when they found themselves being checked in by a kid who was barely tall enough to see them above this countertop.”

  He laughed. “Obviously, since then, you’ve grown some—and filled out.”

  “Yeah. You look as though you’re traveling for business, rather than pleasure.”

  He sighed. “Yeah, business, definitely. I’m in sales. Lots of appointments in this area, which is new to me. But I’m done, and I’m on my way home now. Speaking of pleasure, though—this can’t be much fun for a young guy like you—working on a Saturday night.”

  “Oh, I’m used to it.” I gave Mirco the key to Number Five. “If you need anything, just pick up the phone next to the bed. You’ll see a little card, with the number to call for me to pick up here, and also telling you how to get the outside line, if you want to make any other calls. Of course, we have to add them to your bill,” I told him, apologetically. “But most folks use their cell phones, to get around that.”

  “I’m sure they do. Quite a retro establishment you’ve got here, don’t you?”

  “Well, it’s old,” I admitted. “Lots of original equipment and fittings.”

  “I like the ambience, actually.” He thanked me, and he left.

  I thought I had him pegged. Despite the weary look on his ruggedly handsome face, and the wide gold wedding ring on his left hand, he’d been furtively giving me the eye, sizing me up, during our conversation—and I could tell he liked what he saw.

  Idly, I speculated about whether he was married to a woman, or possibly to a man. Either way, traveling on business, he was on his own, on the road, in a strange town. I wondered whether he cheated on his spouse. He might be looking for some hot action after a long day of those appointments he’d mentioned. As late though it was, he might emerge from his room, changed into casual clothes, and he’d drive out of our parking lot again. On the prowl. Our small town obviously didn’t present the number and range of the temptations which proliferated in a big city. But if he was resourceful, my good-looking traveler might get lucky. He might return to the motel, half drunk, with some local bimbo or horny guy in tow, and in the morning, after he checked out, the sheets on his room’s bed would be stained with sweat and semen. That happened a lot. We operated a respectable establishment, but any motel is essentially a “no-tell
motel,” and what goes on the privacy of the rooms stays there.

  Unless the cops had to be called, which was, mercifully, a rare occurrence for us.

  I was doing some more idle, purely theoretical, swiping, and wishing that I had a hot guy there in the office with me, down on his knees in front of me, sucking my dick—or vice versa!—when Mirco returned.

  He’d removed his suit jacket, and his tie. With the top couple buttons of his dress shirt unfastened, and its cuffs dangling open, minus the cuff links, he looked more relaxed.

  “Everything in the room okay?” I inquired.

  “It’s fine,” he assured me. “Quite nice, actually. Better than I expected. Again—no offense.”

  I had to laugh. “Again—none taken. I know exactly what you mean. Some ‘exit ramp’ motels know they have a captive audience, so to speak. The travelers have to take it or leave it, and because they don’t want to drive farther, they usually take it, and put up with it. So the proprietors tend to let things slide. Not here, though. We take a certain pride in our place. We keep things up.”

  “Good for you. I wanted to ask you—is the food at that diner next door any good?”

  “Yeah. I know the people who run it, of course, they’re good friends of my family. But that wouldn’t make me mislead you. I eat there myself, all the time. Try the section of the menu called Truckdrivers’ Specials,” I suggested.

  “I hardly look like a truckdriver.”

  “You don’t have to be one to order off that part of the menu. It’s just a label they slap on it. Everything there’s a bargain, though. Trust me, you really can’t go wrong.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

  He walked off, across the two parking lots.

  I resumed my swiping and fantasizing, but after a while even that became old. And predictable. The bodies, the faces—of those guys who risked showing their faces—and the profiles, all seemed to blur into one generic type.

  An hour had passed. Mirco came back, and he stuck his head through the door.

  “You were right,” he told me. “I tried the pork schnitzel with noodles and mushroom gravy. Damn, that was filling, and good! Now, all I have to do is shower, and I’ll feel human again. Ready to make an early night of it and get some sleep.”

  “That reminds me. I forgot to ask you before. Want a wakeup call in the morning?”

  “Um, no, thanks. I’m not on a set schedule, now that I’m headed home. I may sleep late, and treat myself to breakfast in the diner before I check out. I imagine you’ll be gone by then?”

  “Yeah, there’ll be a changing of the guard, first thing in the morning. My replacement, Mark, will settle your bill.”

  “Well—if I don’t see you again, Jason—thanks for everything. It was nice meeting you.”

  “Same here. We appreciate your business. Hope you enjoy your stay. And don’t forget. If you need anything, anything at all, before you go to bed, remember all you have to do is pick up the phone and ask.”

  I’d spoken with a fervor which was definitely more than casual, placing a strong emphasis on anything. Mirco looked at me, a bit quizzically, obviously trying to gauge my intent, no doubt wondering whether he’d heard correctly. Was I just being polite to a customer, or was I hinting, none too subtly, about some of the unofficial services one employee of this motel was prepared to provide?

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “I’m bored,” I informed him, by way of a parting shot. “You’d almost be doing me a favor by finding something for me to do for you. To break the monotony. You know?”

  “Let me think about it,” he said, giving me a wry look. “I may come up with something. Some sudden, urgent need—!”

  He left.

  The Swedish-American stud had made quite an impression on me. Left to my own devices, I indulged in lurid fantasies about getting naked with the guy, sucking his cock, having him suck mine. The two of us, sixty- nining. Then I pictured us taking turns rimming each other, and fucking each other up the ass. Damn, my fantasies were vivid, explicit, and compelling! They were almost, if not quite, as good as actual sex with my handsome, sexy motel guest—!

  The phone on the countertop rang, interrupting my lurid thoughts.

  I snatched up the receiver. “Yeah?” I exclaimed.

  “It’s me, Mirco Ericson, in Room Five.”

  “Oh, yeah. Yes, sir. What can I do for you? Is anything wrong?” I inquired, anxiously.

  “The room’s fine.”

  “Glad to hear it, sir. Do you need anything?”

  “I need—some advice, actually,” he said.

  “Yes? About what?”

  “Sex,” he told me, bluntly.

  “Ah—what about sex, exactly, sir?”

  “I need sex. Sexual relief. Tonight. Right now. Right away.”

  “Sorry to hear that—” I began to say, coming across as all innocence.

  “You can help me out,” Mirco declared. “If you want to. If you’re willing to be a real friend, and take care of a friend.”

  “Ah—you’d like me to—?”

  “Come here to my room, so I can talk to you about this face to face, man to man, goddamn it! Oh, don’t take this the wrong way,” he added, hastily—and not very convincingly. “I really just want to talk. Nothing else. I swear.”

  Sure, I thought. Keep telling yourself that, dude! But we both know better, don’t we? I found my voice. “If I do come—?” I said, tentatively.

  “What’s stopping you? Can you leave the front desk unattended?” Mirco asked.

  “Sure,” I replied. “At this time of night, it’s unlikely anybody’s going to drive in looking for a room. But if they do—I’ll put out the sign that tells them to call my cell number. I’ve got my cell phone on me. It’ll ring. If it does, then I’ll have to go and take care of business. But then I can come right back to your room—and take care of business,” I assured him, with a leer. He couldn’t see the look on my face, of course, but no doubt he could hear the innuendo in my voice.

  “You’re very—” Mirco seemed to search for the right word. “Uninhibited.”

  I smirked. “Is that another way of saying slutty?”

  “It’s just that, out here in the middle of nowhere, I didn’t expect to meet anybody quite as sophisticated as you. As comfortable with his sexuality.”

  “Well, we ain’t all inbred shitkickers with manure on our boots,” I drawled. “Some of us even get tired of fucking the farm animals. Just for a change of pace and a giggle, we do it to each other, every now and then—big city style.”

  I could almost see him wince. “Okay, I guess I deserved that. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, think nothing of it. But you might be surprised by what goes on here, out in the country. We’ve got the internet, after all. It’s given some of us country boys ideas—and resources. Opportunities.”

  “It’s so nice of you to be willing to talk to me—and so frankly,” Mirco said. He sounded more than a little lachrymose, and I wondered whether he’d been drinking, or doing drugs, there alone in his room.

  “All part of my job.”

  “Are you really free right now? Am I interrupting anything?” Mirco asked.

  I chuckled. “Hardly.”

  “Well, I wanted to ask you—you see, I’m thinking of going out—”

  “Oh? I thought you were planning on making an early night of it?” I asked, without thinking.

  “I was, but now that I’ve had my shower and gotten my second wind—are there any bars around here?”

  “Of course,” I informed him. “Drinking’s just about the most popular recreational activity, hereabouts. If you don’t mind doing your drinking in the company of a bunch of rednecks, then—” I was about to recite the names of a couple of local dives, when he interrupted me.

  “What I really wanted to know—where’s the nearest gay bar?” he blurted out.

  Before I trusted myself to respond, I tried to take c
ommand of myself, so that I’d sound calm and matter of fact, and my voice wouldn’t betray my sudden excitement. Up to now, we’d been flirting with each other over the phone, euphemistically. Now, though, the conversation was becoming more explicit.

  “I’m afraid you’d have a long drive to get there—into the next city,” I said. “There’s a roadhouse, though. Still a bit of a drive from here, but not as far. It’s ‘gay friendly’ instead of gay. There are a few gay and bisexual men who live around here. They feel safe going there, nobody hassles them.” I spoke, of course, from personal experience. “Mostly because that’s where the local straight guys go, too, when they’re in the mood for some fast, casual action.” Once again, I knew whereof I spoke.

  “Damn,” Mirco muttered. “I don’t feel like making a long drive, both ways. And I wouldn’t be able to drink much, if I’m driving. Maybe I’ll just stay in, after all, now that I’ve gotten myself settled. But,” he went on wistfully, “I’d sure like to hear more about what goes on at that roadhouse!”

  “Listen, like you said before, why don’t we talk about this face to face?” I suggested. “I’ll come to your room.”

  “Okay. But can you really leave the office?” he asked me, again.

  “Sure. Stay put. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  I had no qualms about abandoning my post, not at this late hour of the night. Virtually every guest paid via credit card. We kept a cash box on hand, but we used it mostly to make change for guests who wanted to use our vending machines. And the box was well hidden. There wasn’t anything else in the office worth stealing. If any traveler in search of a room for the light pulled off the interstate this late at night, and walked into the unlocked and unmanned office, he could summon me via my cell phone. Then I’d have to interrupt whatever (or whomever!) I was doing, to go take care of him. But, based on my experience, I knew the odds were against that happening. I’d risk it.

  I went to Mirco’s room, I knocked lightly on the door, and he immediately told me to “Come in.”

  The only light in the main room came from the built-in fixtures on either side of the bed, which he’d turned down. He had a suitcase lying open on the folding rack we provided for that purpose, and he’d unpacked a few items—notably a striped cotton bathrobe, tossed over the foot of the bed. The bathroom door was open, and the light from inside it spilled out into the main room.