I lived alone then, back when it started. I had an okay job, a divorce, and other failed relationships behind me, part of a comparatively mundane tapestry woven over the 42 years of my life. I'd done nothing noteworthy but nothing terrible. I'm that kind of guy -- a classic beta male I suppose.
I often went out for walks on my own around the outskirts of London to keep myself in reasonable shape. It's a city with probably the best transport network in the western world, and I was rather nerdy about exploring it. I also liked industrial landscapes, especially ones which were fading, where nature was beginning to move back in. It was this interest that took me to the stretches of Tilbury on that morning, a morning that marked the end of my old life. I often wonder whether I would have still gone if I knew what was going to happen?
It was a warm early summer day, one of the first of the year that called for shorts and t-shirt. I got the off the train and went over the rail bridge, following the path to the river. I was feeling slightly restless and horny, even though there was no reason to -- like that ever stopped a guy! I had images flicking through my mind in no coherent order; dripping pussies, throbbing cocks, gags and ties, slobber and piss... Just one thing linked these snapshots; I was being done to. In my fantasies I always was, and occasionally in real life, though I never had the balls to properly see it through. I shook my head quickly, wondering where these thoughts had come from, and concentrated on my surroundings to banish them.
The bleak landscape comprised dried brush and scrub, dotted with discarded clothing, random litter blown in, and shredded tyres from lorries that thundered down this lonely road on their way to the docks. It was deserted save for a lorry cab in a lay-by. The engine was off. It looked parked rather than abandoned. I paid it no mind and was walking by, when all of a sudden its window came down. An angular and rather handsome face looked in the wing mirror, nodded to himself and opened the door, swinging his legs out after he'd done so.
"You late!" he observed with a noticeable East European accent. I looked up at him, the puzzlement clear on my face. He continued: "We said midday and it is gone quarter past. I was only going to wait a few more minutes." He fixed me with a stern gaze.
"Sorry, but what?" I enquired.
"Late. We said midday!"
"But I'm just out for a walk. Who are you expecting?"
"A walk?" He raised an eyebrow. "You are not sucklad86?"
"Who?"
"You fit the description. I am sorry."
He looked disappointed and I suddenly realised he was expecting a hookup. I guess he'd arranged on some website or other to meet a guy and, by the sound of that guy's moniker, get a blow job from him.
