No One in the Bar Could Resist the Trucker

Kwame Asare had been behind the wheel for eleven hours when he parked the Scania in front of Bar El Cruce. It was a stretch of road he did twice a year: pickup at the inland farms, delivery to the warehouses on the coast. He knew the timings, the detours, the truck stops worth pulling into. He didn’t know this one yet.

But he walked in as if he’d known it forever.

Six-foot-three, broad-backed, dark skin like wet asphalt. An open Hawaiian shirt over a chest hung with a thick gold chain. Tight jeans that showed everything that needed showing. On his left hand, a wedding band. On his right, a ring with a skull. Among transport drivers, the ones who knew him called him the Machine. He didn’t deny it.

The girl who came over to take his order was twenty-one, hair tied back in a ponytail with highlights and a hoop piercing in her nose. Her name was Sandra. She looked him up and down with a discretion that wasn’t discreet at all.

—What’s to eat?

—Lamb, fish, beef.

—Beef. Whatever you’ve made.

Sandra went to the bar, where the manager was emptying the dishwasher. Carmen was forty-two, with a sharply angled face, dark hair, and a body honed by years of the gym and two of working in that roadside village. She had spent two years in Las Aldeas waiting for her situation to improve enough for her to leave.

—Do you know him? —Sandra asked quietly.

—Seen him around —Carmen said—. Don’t make a thing of it.

But Sandra did make a thing of it. And when closing time came, Kwame was still at his table.

—Do you know if there’s a service area nearby? I’ve been driving all day, I need to shower.

She looked at him a second too long. Two, to be exact.

—I live upstairs. I’ve got a bathroom.

It wasn’t a generous offer. It was a decision she had already made before she opened her mouth.

Kwame went up with clean clothes tucked under his arm. The room was small and messy: unmade bed, ashtrays full, clothes tossed over a chair. In the bathroom he found what he expected: condoms, intimate gels, used wipes in the open-lidded bin. It all made sense.

He showered, put on the tiger-striped thong he’d brought as a spare, and lay down on the bed to wait.

Sandra took fifteen minutes. She came in with wet hair and a towel wrapped around her body. The first thing she looked at was the bulge. She didn’t even try to hide it.

—I see you’ve made yourself comfortable.

Kwame stood up slowly, took her face in one hand, and kissed her without asking. She answered by opening her mouth. When they broke apart, he took off her towel and studied her: butterfly tattoo in the left groin, a rose on one cheek of her ass, hoop piercings in her nipples. A young, curvy body, with more curves than her height suggested.

—What curves, for someone so tiny.

With his right hand he grabbed one breast, and with his left he started making his way between her legs. She was already wet. Sandra closed her eyes and clenched her teeth.

She crouched and took as much of him in her mouth as she could. It wasn’t little. What didn’t fit she worked with her hand in slow circles. She licked his glans, slid down the shaft to the testicles, then back up. She sucked until tears welled up and kept going.

Kwame took her by the shoulders, lifted her, and threw her onto the bed on her back. He поднят her legs and bent them back. He licked her pussy and ass from top to bottom without order or haste, and when she could take no more he slid in three fingers and kept his tongue on her clit.

—That’s how I come, don’t stop!

He pulled a condom from his bag, put it on with one hand, and entered her in a slow, sustained thrust all the way to the hilt.

—Jesus!

They both moaned. He set the pace with cadenced thrusts that made the headboard thud against the wall. Sandra came first, hard and long, with a cry she made no attempt to hold back. Kwame held on a few seconds more, pulled out, removed the condom, and spilled over her chest.

He slept two hours. When he woke, she was smoking by the window, naked, the bar’s neon sign throwing shadows across her back.

—Are you staying around here long?

Kwame dressed slowly, like someone who hadn’t been with anybody.

—Have you ever been with someone like me before? —he asked as he put on his shirt.

—No.

—Then you’ve got something to talk about already.

And he left.

***

The next day at noon, the waiter was different. His name was Marcos, twenty-one, very thin and hairless, with a ponytail and manners that left no room for interpretation. He was handsome, with big eyes that avoided Kwame’s every time their paths crossed. He walked carefully, as if something hurt.

Kwame sat at his table.

—What’s on today?

—Baked hake, lamb or beef.

—Hake.

When Marcos took away his plates, Kwame nodded toward the parking lot.

—That Scania there is mine. Eight hundred horsepower.

—Nice machine.

—You like trucks?

—Trucks, yeah.

—And truckers?

Marcos didn’t answer. He went to fetch the coffee. When he passed the bathroom again, Kwame was waiting for him in the hallway. He put a hand on his ass over the trousers, slowly, as if testing the ground.

—I get off at four —Marcos said, not moving.

Kwame waited in the truck with the music on. Marcos showed up on time, showered and in comfortable clothes. He climbed in without anyone having to ask twice.

—Before I drop you in Las Aldeas, we’re taking a drive.

The cab was spacious. On the sun visors there were photos: a tall, sturdy woman, four children at different ages, a couple of old people in front of a country house. On a small shelf, condoms and wet wipes.

—My family —Kwame said, pointing at the photos—. I’ve spent fifteen years on the road so they can live well.

Marcos was looking at the photos. His phone rang. It was Sandra.

There was an image: a dick of striking size next to an arm, so you could see the scale.

“BE CAREFUL MARCOS HE’S A CANNON AND HE DOESN’T SPARE ANYONE”

Kwame caught it out of the corner of his eye.

—The waitress gave you fair warning.

—Well... yeah.

—And?

Marcos hesitated.

—Well, let’s say...

Kwame unbuttoned his trousers while driving and took his cock out. He rested it on his thigh and kept his eyes on the road.

—Now you’re seeing it in the flesh.

Marcos looked at it for a good while without saying anything. Kwame put on the indicator and turned down a dirt track that dropped between pine trees to an open clearing. He parked, cut the engine. Drew Marcos toward him and kissed him. It wasn’t a tentative kiss. Marcos responded with both hands clutching his shirt.

They moved to the cab bunk.

Kwame worked his ass with his fingers and mouth for a long while, no rush, opening him little by little. He massaged his cheeks, gave him slaps that made them tremble. Marcos moaned with his face buried in the mattress. When Kwame turned him over and guided his head down, Marcos did it without hesitation, with that real clumsiness no pretending can imitate. He licked the glans, went down to the testicles, came back up, tightened his lips around it.

—Do you think you can take all this? —Kwame asked.

—I want to try.

They used Vaseline. Marcos got on top, controlling the descent centimeter by centimeter, finding every limit and going past it. The first time he made it halfway. The second, three-quarters. He was sweating, jaw clenched, but he didn’t stop.

—All of it —he said, voice breaking—. I want all of it.

—On three.

The third time, Kwame pushed from below and Marcos let all his weight drop.

—Jesus!

He stayed still for a few seconds, adjusting to the heat and the size. Then Kwame started pumping from below with short strokes and Marcos found a rhythm he hadn’t known he had. He came on him, spilling down to Kwame’s neck. Kwame roared and unloaded with his teeth clenched.

Marcos stayed like that for another minute, eyes shining, ass throbbing.

When Kwame dropped him off at his street, Marcos could barely walk straight.

—What do they call you? —he asked from the pavement.

—The Machine.

He pulled away with a sharp blast of the horn and took the road.

***

That night there were fiestas in Las Aldeas. Four lit streets, a makeshift bar, loud music, and the whole village out in the street. Carmen had put on a black dress with a low neckline and worn her hair loose. The neighbors had looked at her with suspicion for two years: they called her snobbish, cold, an outsider who never quite fit in. She didn’t care much.

Kwame showed up around eleven. Freshly showered, gold chain on, Hawaiian shirt open over his chest, jeans showing everything. He walked into the square and the floodlights bounced off his skin. He found Carmen at the bar and stood beside her without ceremony.

—So you had something to do with the cattleman they talk about around here.

—Business gone wrong. I paid the consequences with time and with my body.

—And now you’re waiting tables in a dump of a village.

—Do I seem very old to you?

He ran his eyes over her slowly, from head to toe.

—You look very good. At least dressed.

At that moment Marcos passed by, limping slightly. He saw them together, hesitated, waved, and kept walking.

—Marcos —Kwame said, loudly—. If in a few weeks your period hasn’t come, call me. I’m the kind who owns up to consequences.

Marcos went bright red to the ears and hurried off without looking back.

—You’re an asshole —Carmen said, half amused, half incredulous—. Men too?

—Anything worth it.

—And now me?

—You already made your choice a while ago.

Carmen held his gaze for a moment. Then she stood up and started walking toward her street. Kwame followed.

The apartment was small: living room with an open kitchen, a bedroom at the back. As soon as the door closed, they looked at each other for a second. Then they lunged.

He slid the straps of her dress down, unhooked her bra, and buried his mouth in her breasts. She opened his belt, reached in, and took him out. She held him in her palm and weighed him calmly.

—Good God.

From the square came music muffled by the shutters. Firecrackers. The incandescent flicker of fireworks seeping through the slats.

They did sixty-nine. Carmen on top, taking as much of him in her mouth as she could, working him in a spiral with her hand. Kwame licked pussy and ass alternately, with a long, active tongue, holding her ass open with both hands. From outside came the dull boom of rockets and light pulsed through the shutters in irregular flashes.

When Carmen could take no more, Kwame turned her. He put her on the edge of the bed on her knees and went in without a condom, hard, all the way in.

—Ohh!

The rhythm built from the start. Every thrust echoed in the bedroom. He held her by the hips with both hands, then slid his thumb into her ass while keeping up the motion. He mussed her hair with the other hand and bent her back. Carmen stared at the ceiling, eyes shining, breathing through her mouth, unable to get a word out.

—I’m gonna come!

She did, hard, with everything, with a squirt that soaked the sheets. Kwame spat on her ass, shoved in the glans, and unloaded with a roar he made no effort to hold back.

Fifteen minutes later he was out in the square with his shirt open over his chest. The neighbors were whispering among themselves. An old woman shook her head. He stopped at a fairground stall and bought a bag of toys without looking at the price. He went back to the truck and leaned back in the seat with the window open, the warm night over him, the firecrackers dying out in the distance.

At six in the morning he started the engine and put on the indicator.

The motorway was empty. Kwame turned on the music in the onboard computer and accelerated. He had a delivery in two hours and another two hundred kilometers of road ahead of him. He had three more days in the area.

At Bar El Cruce, Carmen served the first coffees of the day without saying a word. But Sandra arrived late, with dark circles under her eyes and in a good mood, and as they crossed paths at the bar she murmured:

—Do you know what they call him?

—The Machine —Carmen said, without looking up from the glasses—. And it fits.