We both ordered coffee.
“I’ll have a large bowl of chili,” Clint told our waitress. “Two triple bacon cheeseburgers with everything on them—lettuce, tomato, onion, pickle. An order of onion rings. And a piece of the apple pie.”
“Nothing wrong with your appetite, is there?” I commented.
Clint grinned at me. “It’s not just my rig that needs to be kept fueled.”
Exercising more restraint, I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, with potato salad on the side.
Clint ate every morsel of his food. I almost expected him to burb when he was done, but, mercifully, he didn’t.
We had more coffee.
“Looks like this is a small town,” Clint remarked.
“It is.”
“Not much to do here at night, huh?”
“Not much. You pretty well have to make your own entertainment.”
“I’ve got a couple of hours to kill before I have to get back on the road. But I guess you’re telling me—the odds of me getting laid anywhere around here are just about zero?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Got any whores who work the truck stop?”
“One or two.”
“How about—male whores? You know, hustlers?”
I smiled. “One or two,” I repeated. “You’re looking at one of them.” It was the same situation I’d recently gone through with Mirco Ericson. I liked Clint, and I’d have been willing to have sex with him for free. But if he was willing to sweeten the pot by steering some cash my way, I wouldn’t object.
He jumped at the chance. “How much?” he asked.
“Make me an offer,” I suggested.
“Well, I’m not exactly rolling in money. What trucker is? I guess I can spare forty. And I’ll pick up this check, of course.”
“That sounds good.”
“I can’t really afford to get a room at that motel next door. Not if I’m going to pay you,” he said, frankly. “We can always do it in my truck cab, if we have to. Unless you have a place.”
“I have a place. Short drive from here. Got my pickup parked out front. You can follow me.”
“There’s a place to park my rig, when we get there?”
I smiled. “Oh, yeah. Plenty of room. You’ll see.”
He paid at the register. We left the diner, and he followed me to the farm.
“Nobody’s home but you?” Clint asked, as I led him toward the front porch of the farmhouse.
“Not at the moment,” I replied, not wanting to waste time by going into the details of my living situation. And I’d just picked up a virtual stranger, and brought him to my isolated home. I doubted that Clint was a serial killer in addition to being a truckdriver, but there was no harm in letting him assume that other people would be arriving at the farmhouse before the night was over.
Inside the house, I offered Clint a beer, but he refused it. He was eager to get down to business. In my bedroom, he matter of factly put two twenties down on the nightstand, and we both got undressed.
“What do you want to do?” I inquired.
“I like to suck cock and get fucked,” he informed me, without hesitation or embarrassment. “And I like it a little rough. You can talk nasty to me, if you want to. Order me about. Even slap me around a little. That always gets me hot.”
“You sound like you’re a dirty cocksucker,” I said, slipping into a dominant role.
“Yeah,” he gasped. “You bet I am.”
Clint was already erect. Oddly enough, I wasn’t, which was unusual for me. As a rule, when I was alone with a guy and we were getting ready to have sex, I sprang a boner even before the clothes came off. I was limp-dicked at the moment, which disconcerted me.
But Clint didn’t seem to mind. We were sitting nude on the bed, and his hands were restlessly caressing my body, occasionally pressing his fingers into my flesh, as though he wanted to feel how hard my muscles were.
“Oh, you’ve got a beautiful body,” he breathed. “All these muscles! But such nice soft skin, on top of them.”
“Sorry I’m not hard yet,” I apologized, without thinking. Then I remembered that Clint wanted to be topped, to some extent.
He glanced down at my crotch, then up at my face. “Maybe I can help you with that,” he murmured. “In fact—maybe you should tell me to help get you hard!”
“Yeah, fucker,” I growled, trying to look and sound as tough as possible. “Your wrist doesn’t look broken, to me! Come on, get busy. Take my cock in your hand and work it. Get it hard!”
Instantly, his big, calloused hand shot down into my groin and cupped my dick. It was still flaccid, but it stirred when his busy fingers closed around it and began to squeeze and tug and stroke.
“Aw, shit, that’s a big, beautiful piece of meat,” he exclaimed. “Can’t take my eyes off it, stud. I could sit here and stare at that thing all night long.”
“Well, we haven’t got all night, so don’t just look at it,” I told him. “This admiration of yours is all very well and good, but it’s not helping to get me off.” I pushed down hard on his huge shoulders. “Go on, get down there and put your mouth on it. Suck it for me. Make it hard.”
“Yeah!”
“Go on, suck it!” I repeated. Impatient to be blown, I pushed again. But Clint was already complying with my demand. He slid off the bed and got on the floor beside it, on his knees. He opened his mouth and he began to say something, but I didn’t give him the chance. I grabbed him by his hair and I pulled his face into my crotch. “Suck it, goddamn you,” I growled. “You like it rough? Then you’re going to get it rough. You’ve paid for it. it’s no good to you soft, so suck it! Get it hard, trucker, and then I’ll fuck your face for you and give you your money’s worth.”
I could tell he was excited by my display of aggression. I tugged on his hair and I pressed his open mouth against my cock. But he really didn’t need to be forced. He kissed my shaft and swabbed it with his tongue, working his way quickly up to the tip. There, he encircled my glans with his lips.
“Aw, fuck, yeah! Suck!” I hissed. I shoved his mouth down on my cock and I clamped my thighs against either side of his head. “Now that you’ve got it in your mouth, how does it feel? As good as you thought it would?” But of course I gave him no opportunity to answer me, except by means of the grunts and gurgles of pleasure which I heard escaping from his penis-plugged lips. His mouth was stuffed with my dick and I had every intention of keeping it that way, until I could come in his mouth and make sure that he swallowed my full load, every drop of it.
I thrust his head back and forth on my prick, which began to respond to the wet warmth of his mouth. Very soon, I was gratifyingly hard, my shaft inflexible as I wielded it like a weapon, using it to punish his unresisting, receptive mouth.
“Suck it,” I gasped. “Suck that cock!”
Clint was starting to gag on my bulk, as I jabbed my glans toward his throat. All of my erection was firmly wedged inside his mouth, giving him no respite. He tried to pull himself back, but I gave him a stinging slap across the back of his head.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” I warned him. “Man up, trucker! Keep your mouth down on it. All the way down on it! Don’t you dare stop sucking until I tell you to stop. And get ready to have your throat fucked.”
He submitted to me, emitting little whimpers, interspersed with the retching sounds he continued to make, as he struggled to placate me. I held his mouth down on my dick until it was throbbing like a heartbeat. My penis was so stiff that he was really in danger of choking on it, but, manfully, stoically, he held on—even when I could feel my glans scouring out the depths of his gurgling throat. I suspected I was about to come, but suddenly I didn’t want to feed him my semen. Not orally, anyway!
I shoved his head away, rudely interrupting the blow job. He started to get up, but I shoved him back down.
“No,” I barked. “Stay where you are, for now, where you are—down on your knees!” He looked up at me, quizzic
ally, but I could see that his excitement was unabated. “I seem to recall you telling me you like to be fucked.”
“Yeah,” he gasped. “Are you going to do it to me?”
“Damn right I am.” I jumped off the bed and got behind him. “Now get up. Lie over the side of the bed.” He started to say something, perhaps a question or a protest, but I forestalled him. I jerked him up by his armpits and I flung him face down onto the mattress.
“That’s a nice fat, jiggly ass you’ve got there, cocksucker,” I jeered at him. I was exaggerating, being unfair. His behind was pleasingly plump, not at all flabby. I smacked his butt cheeks with the palms of my hand. Clint liked that, all right!
“Harder,” he begged. “Harder, please.”
I gave him a good spanking, whacking his ass repeatedly until his buttocks turned red as a result of the repeated impact. I desisted only when my hands started to hurt.
“Yeah,” I gloated. “Now that ass looks hot on the outside. It’d better be hot on the inside, too. You’d better be a hot-assed little trucker bitch.”
“I am,” Clint vowed. “I am!”
“I’m going to get in that hole—!” And I did. Moving quickly, I positioned myself right behind Clint, and I drove my stiff, slippery prick right up his ass.
“Oh, Jesus!” he yelled.
“Jesus can’t help you now,” I taunted him. “You’re just going to have to lie there and take it. You wanted it. Now you’re getting it. Uh, that’s a tight ass! Just the kind I like to screw.”
Oh, how I hammered him! An erotic fury seemed to take possession of me. I fucked him without mercy—not that Clint ever asked me for any. I exulted in the tight pressure of his anus around my cock and the warmth of his internal flesh, as I drove in and out of him, each of my thrusts more ruthless than the last.
“Take it! Take that dick!” I shouted at him. Sweat was dripping from me, and my legs were shaking. I was very close to coming. “Take my cock, you horny, hot-assed bastard!”
I lunged furiously, wringing deep, despairing-sound groan of pain from him, and then I shot into his ass, full force. Again and again, helplessly, I ejaculated, filling Clint’s anus with my frothy cum. But I was aware that he was coming, too. He hadn’t touched his cock, but the steady rubbing of his body on the mattress must have brought him off—that, combined with the brutal fucking I’d given him.
After I was done firing off my fuck fluid, and I had a chance to calm down and catch my breath, I pulled out of him. He stood up, shakily, and I saw the semen he’d deposited on the bedsheets.
“I’m afraid I made a mess of your bed,” he apologized, meekly.
“That’s nothing. Forget about it.”
“I haven’t been fucked like that in a long time. God, that was good! Listen. Let me have your phone number. The next time I come through this way, I’ll give you a call, and we can do it again. And—I’ll save up my money in the meantime. I’ll pay you whatever you want.”
That sounded good to me. I gave Clint my number, and I told him that if his schedule permitted him to spend the night during his next visit, then I’d be glad to put him up.
“I’d better get going,” he said, with a wistful sigh.
“Take a shower, before you get dressed, if you want to,” I invited him.
“Can I?”
“Of course.”
“That’s be great.”
“And, hey—do you have a thermos in the cab of your rig?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll make some coffee, and you can take it with you.”
“That’d be great, too.”
Ten minutes later, I carried the coffee pot with me when I walked Clint to his truck. He took out his thermos, which I filled for him.
“Thanks, Jason—for everything. I sure like the service you get at this ‘motel’ of yours,” Clint joked.
Little did he know!
I sent the hot stud trucker on his way. My encounter with Clint had been brief, but he seemed satisfied. And I knew that I certainly was!
Chapter Five: Make Love to Me—and My Wife
It was early in the evening. Mercifully, I wouldn’t be working the graveyard shift at the motel that night. I was in fact nearing the end of my shift. I kept looking at the clock on the office wall, counting the minutes still left to go.
I roused myself from my lethargy when a car pulled into our lot. It wasn’t just any car—it was a brand-new Cadillac. Furthermore, it was painted a distinctive color, a vibrant lime green, which was surely a custom job.
A man—who was driving—and a woman got out, and they came into the office. They were both young, probably in their early thirties, and very well dressed. The guy, with reddish-blond hair, was handsome and he had an alert, animated look about him. The woman, a brunette, looked like a fashion model, and she was wearing a great deal of jewelry—a diamond necklace, diamond bracelets on both wrists, an engagement ring with a large square-cut stone next to her wedding ring, and another ostentatious ring on her other hand.
“Hi, there! Got a room for a couple of weary travelers?” the man asked me, cheerfully.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Good man. What’s your name?”
“Jason.”
“Well, Jason, I’m exhausted.”
“Sorry to hear that, sir,” I told him.
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll recover, eventually.”
They checked in. His name was Vernon Sinclair, and he signed the register as mister and missus. He, too, wore a gold wedding ring, on the third finger of his left hand, I saw.
“Must we spend the night here?” his wife asked. She was looking around the office with obvious disdain, a look almost of repugnance on her lovely, carefully made-up face. “This is a dump!” she declared, indifferent to the fact that I, who was in charge of the dump at the moment, was standing right there, within earshot. “It’s filthy! Disgusting!” she insisted, which I have to say was a vile slander. We always kept the premises spotlessly clean. I ought to know. I’d done my share of dusting, vacuuming, and scrubbing over the years!
“I told you, Faye, I don’t feel like driving any farther tonight,” Mr. Sinclair replied.
“I can drive, while you put the seat back and take a nap,” she suggested. “There must be a better motel somewhere up ahead. Why throw money away here?” The lady, obviously, wasn’t big on tact.
“You want me to sleep while I trust your driving?” the husband said, cynically. “Please! Every car we’ve owned, you’ve ended up denting—or worse. You’re not going to wreck this one. I don’t feel like ending up in a ditch. Or in the morgue. I assume that even out here in the boondocks, in the middle of nowhere, there’s such a thing as a county coroner?” He turned to me. “Is there?”
“I’m sure there is, sir,” I replied.
“I’ll avoid making his acquaintance, for now, if I may. And for the foreseeable future!”
The gentleman had a mordant, indeed morbid, sense of humor, which appealed to me. I liked him. I wasn’t so crazy about his stuck-up bitch of a spouse! She could take her diamonds and shove them, so far as I was concerned.
But I maintained a pose of bland professionalism.
“I can put you up in our best room, which happens to be available,” I suggested.
“Oh? What’s so special about it?” the man asked.
“Well, we call it the bridal suite, but in fact other couples often reserve it,” I explained. “It has a king size bed. Which vibrates.”
He burst out laughing. “This I’ve got to see! And feel. Do you have cable TV here?”
“Yes, sir, in every room.”
“Can you get porn on it?”
“Ah—yeah. Although those premium channels are pay to view, of course. It’d go on your bill.”
“That’s fine. I want the full rustic experience. We’ll take the bridal suite.”
Mrs. Sinclair looked resigned to her fate. “Is there room service here, at least?” she wanted to know.
“Sort of, ma’am,” I said. “The diner next door will deliver anything to you here. There’s a copy of their menu in each room.”
Mr. Sinclair grinned. “See, darling? One-stop shopping. Maybe the wilderness isn’t so uncivilized, after all.” He turned back to me. “Can you have the bellboy carry our bags to the room?”
The bellboy, no less! What’d they think this was, a five-star hotel? “I’ll do it, sir,” I volunteered. We usually let our guests fend for themselves, unless they were obviously struggling with a heavy piece of luggage. But I was eager to show this couple that they wouldn’t have to rough it too much.
They had several suitcases stowed away in the trunk of their car. Staggering under the weight, I hauled them into the room.
Vernon handed me a five-dollar bill—not bad reimbursement for such a fairly easy chore.
“Thank you, sir. If you need anything, anything at all—” I gave him the usual spiel about how he could use the room’s phone to call the front desk.
“Yeah, I won’t hesitate,” he told me, while he gave me a searching glance, which swept rapidly up and down, taking in my whole body. “You seem like an able-bodied sort of a lad. Um, they grow them big out here in the country, don’t they?”
“Uh, I try to be, sir—able-bodied, I mean. Helpful,” I mumbled, awkwardly. Wow! By now, I’d been around the block enough times to know when I was being checked out—when I was being cruised. Even by a married man. The novelty, this time, was that the married man wasn’t alone, and he wasn’t hesitating to flirt with me in front of his wife—who seemed blissfully oblivious.
He smiled at me. “What’s the matter? Do I scare you?”
“No, sir, not at all.” Which was kind of a lie. He was a bit intimidating. He had a brash self-confidence about him which made me feel gawky and insecure, by comparison. “Thank you again,” I told him, as I made my escape.
When I left the room, just before I closed the door behind me, I heard Faye grumble, “Look at this place! What a dump!” She was doing a pretty good imitation of Bette Davis, in that campy old movie, Beyond the Forest.
Highway Hustle Page 6
