He was half on, half off the short bunk, with one foot leveraged high to one side on a grab handle in the top center of the back wall of the cab, his back arched on two hard pillows, his hands open wide over the driver's naked buttocks, fingers digging into flesh, moaning in long, building moans matching the long slides of the hard ramrod inside him. The driver, clad only in cowboy hat, red bandana neck scarf, tooled-leather boots, and a broad grin, was crouched over the bunk between the young man's legs, giving him what the young guy had been begging for all the way from Lusk, where the Wyoming landscape had gotten so monotonous that the young man could only think about why he'd bummed this ride and had started moaning for them to stop and get into the back.
The young man started to quiver and writhe, and the driver laughed and stepped up his thrusting, quicker, deeper, all the way out, and then the long slide back in and holding there, as the young man gasped and murmured his surrender. The driver only had to wrap his fist around the young man's cock and pump slowly three times and put his thumb over the piss slit of the angry red bulb before white, slick cum was flowing around his thumb and down the young man's engorged dick.
With a little cry and a long moan, all of the tension and cum flowed out of the young man. But the driver drove on. Still deep, rotating his hips, making the young man rise to him, encircling him with his arms, holding him close, burying his face into the driver's hard chest, asking him now for it never to end.
* * * *
"See, wha'd I tell you? Lookee over there."
"Where?" Dwayne asked, moving his eyes to where Stan was motioning, out beyond the dirty glass in the front wall of the truck stop café in the complex where all the guys stopped to gas and feed up when they were driving through Cheyenne, Wyoming, on a long haul.
"Him? He's the guy with that fancy rig out there?" Dwayne asked, his voice incredulous. And his judgment not all that suspect. Walking toward them from the big, shiny burgundy rig with the extra-deep sleeper behind the cab was a rangy-looking cowboy. And not a new one either—probably no younger than his early forties. He wasn't too tall and certainly wasn't too fat. In fact he looked a little gaunt, all angles, and leathery tan, and wrinkles. Much like most of the rig drivers up here in the badlands of the upper West—well-worn jeans, a faded plaid flannel shirt, tooled-leather boots, a weather-beaten black ten-gallon hat, and a red bandana around his neck. But he walked tall, and his step was jaunty.
"Yep, him," Stan answered.
"And you say you can always tell when he's goin' through?" Dwayne continued.
"Yep. It's them young guys over there, just as I told yer."
Dwayne and Stan swiveled to take in the three young guys sitting together at a table set down not far from the doorway, between the café and convenience store section. Definitely out of place here. Not truckers by any means. Too young and preppy and "from money" looking. College guys just pulling over for a cup of coffee, Dwayne had surmised. But then he'd agreed with Stan that this wasn't the place that three college guys would pull over to on this stretch of road. There were fast food joints nearby—not to mention a Starbucks nearly across the road.
"Them guys?" Dwayne repeated.
"Yep. I've noticed it before. This is the third time this year," Stan said, turning away from the boys and watching the rig driver approach the café. "He don't come in here that often—I see him maybe once a month, maybe not as often. But I do short hauls, so I'm in here more than I'm not. But I noticed the last three times. Two, three guys like that come in here and order coffee and watch the door, and not long after, his rig drives up and here he comes just a struttin' in the door, pretty as you please."
"Gotta be drugs," Dwayne said.
"Yep, that's what I figure too," Stan said, very pleased with himself—and with Dwayne too.
The rig driver had reached the door and entered the café and, after taking one long look at the young guys at the front table, turned and brushed past Stan and Dwayne's table on the way to one nearer the back.
"Afternoon, Stan," he muttered as he passed the table. He raised the tip of his hat, although he didn't actually look straight at either Stan or Dwayne, and he didn't slow down his walk. There was no hint he was going to ask if they wanted him to sit at their table.
"Same ta yer, Ralph," Stan answered.
Dwayne started to say something, but Stan shushed him, waiting for the rig driver to get to another table and settle. When he looked up, he was looking at the young men up front—and they were looking at him. Another young man, moving slowly and a little bowlegged, a sloppy grin on his face, entered the café, looked around, and moved to the table where the other three young guys were already sitting. They put their heads together and were whispering across their table.
