The overhead light in the sleeper cabin behind the Mack truck cab was on dim, casting an eerie light over Mack, nicknamed for driving semis, who was covering the young sailor. It was a little over a week before Thanksgiving. Long Beach was where he'd picked up the cute little guy in his alluring sailor whites when Mack was taking on a load off the docks there to drive to Kansas City. The very-young-looking, nineteen-year-old sailor, coming off his first cruise, said he was headed south to Fort Worth—home for the holidays, he'd said—and had begged for a ride and agreed to be ridden to get it. The truck was parked at the Flying J truck center in Barstow, California, where the highways—and Mack and the sailor—split and where Mack would be taking I-15 north and the sailor would be looking for an ongoing ride west and south on I-40.
The sailor, small of body, barely able to raise a beard, cute and willowy, was on all fours on the bed that took up most of the sleeper cabin. He was doing what he'd only recently, on his first cruise, learned to do for sailors on board ship. He was taking cock—massive cock in this instance.
He was still in his white jumper, but that was all. Mack, large and formidable, especially in contrast to the young sailor, was hovering over the young man, embracing the sailor's chest, his hand up under the jumper, clutching the sailor's pecs, holding the little guy close and steady as he moved his hips, mining the sailor's channel to a steady beat. The sailor was writhing and huffing and puffing as Mack penetrated him with a beer-can cock, not appreciably long, but almost impossibly thick. The young man was especially aware of the thick cock ring pressing at the latex of the condom in the truck driver's cock head. This was the first time the sailor was being fucked by a cock with a thick stud in its head, and all of the young man's groaning senses were focused there.
It had been all sex. They hadn't even exchanged names. The sailor was nervous, trying out for the first time how he could get from the ship to Fort Worth without having to shell out any money, and Mack wanting to only think of his winter holiday haul pickups as convenient pieces of ass rather than young men with names and lives of their own.
Mack, in his mid-forties, was an avid bodybuilder, hanging onto youth as best he could. He also was into leather and tattoos and piercings. Tom of Finland was the look he went for when he was trucking, the look that attracted the young guys looking for adventure and manhandling.
He was a divinely built, handsome man of commanding musculature, his torso and arms covered with intricate, expensively done, tattooing, and a diamond stud in his right earlobe and gold bars in his nipples. If he were an ugly man, other men would give him a wide berth, but he wasn't. He was strikingly good looking and had a great smile. It was obvious he was a man's man, a Tom of Finland, but other seeking men gravitated to him, wanting to ride on the wild side and intuitively knowing he'd treat them right—and, if not exactly right, he'd fuck them totally—certainly something to think about and savor at Christmas.
Fully mounted and saddled, Mack held steady on the young man's back. Trembling, but also holding steady now, fully possessed by the stretching shaft, the sailor settled down for the initially slow in and out, in and out fuck.
"Shit, that cock ring," he moaned.
Mack was in his favorite gear for action such as this. His torso was encased by the leather harness, with the ring pressed under his bulging pecs, he was wearing his black leather wristbands and his black-leather studded captain's hat, and his shiny black leather combat boots were on his feet. He was Tom of Finland, fucking his boy.
He held the sailor close under him, mounted on his tail like a dog, and thrust and thrust, picking up speed and intensity as the sailor held under him, shuddering and shimmering, whimpering and panting, taking the impossibly thick shaft and rub of the cock ring, one of the sailor's hands moving between his legs to stroke himself off, while the other hand and his knees took the position. Even though the truck was heavy, the motion of the fuck was causing the cabin to sway a little, not unlike what the sailor felt on board his ship at sea while one sailor after the other was gangbanging him. Mack was taking most of his own weight on the soles of his feet buried on either side of the sailor's calves, raising his arms in the concluding increasingly vigorous thrusts, and grasping strap loops in the interior of the cabin sides to hold himself in place as he drove hard to his ejaculation.
The sailor cried out in pain-passion and collapsed under Mack onto the narrow, vinyl-covered bed in the dim light as Mack tensed and jerked and came, tensed and jerked and came.
It wasn't the first time they'd fucked in the sleeping cabin. They'd done so where Mack had picked the sailor up in San Berdino at a truck stop. But this had been a better fuck than the first time. The sailor had known what to expect—what was expected of him, which wasn't much—and, having taken the beer-can cock before was better prepared to take it a second time.
Inside the café in the Flying J truck stop, eighteen-year-old Tanner, nudging the duffel bag beside his chair, was nursing a cup of coffee and staring out of the window, looking for something out in the lot where the tractor-trailer trucks were parked. Some drivers were out and about in the lot, gathering in small conversation group. But the drivers of many of the semis were snoozing in their sleeper cabs, building up the energy to start the next leg of their cross-continent drive, hauling the nation's goods to market from the ports in the weeks building up to the Christmas season.
Tanner, small, blond, preppy looking, saw the sailor, also small, compact, moving gingerly, looking spiffy in his sailor whites and hefting a white duffel bag, climb, with effort, out of the sleeping cab of one of the tractor trailers, a humongous Mack truck, and hobble deeper into the parked fleet. Tanner scrutinized the sailor, speculating where he'd been and what he'd been doing, as the young man approached a couple of drivers who were leaning against a truck and jawing. A few minutes later, a real hunk of a guy, not too old but not too young, muscular and strutting like he owned the place, came out of the sleeper cab. He was dressed in faded jeans, topped by a fancy Western-style cotton shirt with fancy detailing and silver studs on a yoke collar and along the shoulders. The studded black-leather captain's hat and shiny combat boots gave him a dangerous look. Tanner shuddered and felt the "coming-to-life" arousal going through his tight little body.
That was the one. If he was headed east in that rig, that was the one Tanner was looking for.
Mesmerized by the size and bearing of the dark-haired truck driver, Tanner watched Mack strut across the asphalt separating the Flying J building from the truckers' parking lot, enter the building, and head back toward where the shower facilities were for the truckers. Tanner didn't miss the diamond stud in Mack's ear, the satisfied look on his face, or the baggie he was carrying in his hand containing what unmistakably was a spent Trojan Magnum condom.
The truck driver gave a little scowl as he entered the Flying J building. The place was decorated—tackily decorated—for Christmas, with a lot of stringy red, gold, and white tinselly stuff hanging around on the walls. It wasn't even Thanksgiving yet and the Christmas decorations were already going up. Not that it mattered all that much to Mack, who would be on the road, moving goods, most of the holiday season—right up to Christmas. He always paused his driving to be at home, on the lake, in Gunnison, Colorado, for Christmas. There wasn't much other for him to do at home in this season, though. There wasn't anyone but his dog and a few casually friendly neighbors waiting for him there. This was his busy season in a job that was slowly decreasing for him. He made sure he was on the road for the winter holidays. It was all for the little gifts he gave himself while on the road.
And, speaking of gifts, Mack's eyes had looked beyond the Christmas decorations and picked out the cute little blond piece watching him from the café as well, and he let his assessing look become blatant as the two focused on each other. He also made sure the baggie he was carrying with the spent condom in it could be seen.
The kid, the only one seated in the café at the moment, wasn't more than eighteen or nineteen, Mack thought. He was small, perfectly proportioned, dressed preppy, good-looking, with an eager puppy demeanor, and had a gold loop earring in his right ear. That wasn't supposed to mean much anymore, but Mack, who was good at picking them out, knew that, combined with other signals, it did mean something. As he marched back to the showers to dispose of the used condom and to shower up for the run up to Vegas, Denver, and beyond, he also noticed the duffel bag on the floor at the kid's feet.
Maybe the sweet piece wanted a ride in exchange for being ridden, Mack thought. Maybe he'd still be here waiting for me when I finished my shower. This is what Mack got on the road for during the winter holiday season—this was his "gifts to myself" season.
* * * *
Mack didn't have to wait. When he came out of the shower into the locker room, Tanner was there, leaning up against the bank of lockers. They stood there, Tanner with eyes wide in the wonder of what he was looking at and Mack, entering the locker room from the shower, holding the knot of his towel with one hand.
"Shit, just look at those tattoos," Tanner said, his eyes getting big.
Mack laughed. "You like tattoos, kid?" he asked.
"Sure," Tanner said after a pause. Then, boldly, "Can I touch them?"
Mack laughed. "Knock yourself out," he said. with a smirk, letting his towel fall and standing there naked. "Got 'em down here too." Would this kid really be this easy? He looked around the area. Anyone else here? No one in sight. He could take him here, but, no, there was too much risk of someone coming in. There were several trucks in the lot. The risk was high that one of those drivers would want to shower just as he got the sweetie under him. This was why he had the semi with the sleeping compartment behind the cab.
Tanner sucked in air, "Fuck," he said, his eyes going to the size of Mack's dark cock and balls and to the cock ring in the shaft's head. The cock was on the rise. Tanner knew the man wanted him.
