No One at the Bar Could Resist the Truck Driver

Kwame Asare had been behind the wheel for eleven hours when he parked the Scania in front of El Cruce Bar. It was a route he made twice a year: collecting from the inland farms, delivering to the warehouses on the coast. He knew the schedules, the detours, the bars where worthwhile truckers stopped. He didn’t know this one yet.

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

Six foot three, broad-shouldered, dark skin like wet asphalt. An open Hawaiian shirt over a chest bearing a thick gold chain. Tight jeans that showed everything worth showing. A wedding ring on his left hand. A skull ring on his right. The people who knew him among the transport workers called him the Machine. He never denied it.

The girl who came over to take his order was twenty-one, with highlighted hair tied back in a ponytail and a hoop piercing in her nose. Her name was Sandra. She looked him up and down with a discretion that was anything but discreet.

“What’s there 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 sharply angled features, dark hair, a body shaped by years of working out and two years of walking around that roadside town. She had been in Las Aldeas for two years, waiting for her situation to improve enough for her to leave.

“Do you know him?” Sandra asked quietly.

“By sight,” Carmen said. “Don’t give it another thought.”

But Sandra did give it another thought. 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 a shower.”

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

“I live upstairs. I have a bathroom.”

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

Kwame went upstairs with clean clothes tucked under his arm. The room was small and untidy: an unmade bed, full ashtrays, clothes piled on a chair. In the bathroom he found what he expected: condoms, intimate gels, used wipes in the open-lidded trash can. Everything made sense.

He showered, put on the tiger-striped thong he carried as a spare, and stretched out 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 try to hide it.

“I see you’ve made yourself comfortable.”

Kwame rose slowly, took her face in one hand, and kissed her without asking permission. She responded by opening her mouth. When they parted, he removed her towel and examined her: a butterfly tattoo on her left groin, a rose on her buttock, hoop piercings in her nipples. A young, curvy body, with more curves than her height would have suggested.

“That’s quite a set of curves for such a little thing.”

With his right hand he grabbed one breast, while with his left he began opening a path between her legs. She was already wet. Sandra closed her eyes and clenched her teeth.

She crouched down and took as much of him into her mouth as she could. It wasn’t little. What wouldn’t fit, she worked with her hand in slow circles. She licked the head, went down the shaft to his balls, and came back up. She swallowed until tears sprang to her eyes, and kept going.

Kwame grabbed her by the shoulders, lifted her, and tossed her onto her back on the bed. He raised her legs and folded them back. He licked her pussy and asshole from top to bottom, without order or hurry, and when she couldn’t take any more, he slid three fingers inside her and kept working her clitoris with his tongue.

“That’s how I come, don’t stop!”

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

“God!”

They both moaned. He set the rhythm with cadenced strokes that made the headboard reverberate. Sandra came first, hard and long, with a cry she didn’t try to suppress. Kwame held out a few moments longer, pulled out, removed the condom, and came across her chest.

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

“Are you staying in the area long?”

Kwame dressed slowly, like a man who hadn’t been with anyone.

“Have you ever been with one like me?” he asked as he put on his shirt.

“No.”

“Then now you’ve got something to talk about.”

And he left.

***

At noon the following day, the waiter was different. His name was Marcos, twenty-one, very thin and hairless, with a ponytail and a manner that left no room for interpretation. He had a handsome face, with large eyes that avoided Kwame’s whenever their paths crossed. He walked carefully, as if something bothered him.

Kwame sat down at his table.

“What’s on today?”

“Baked hake, lamb, or beef.”

“Hake.”

When Marcos cleared away his plates, Kwame pointed toward the parking lot.

“That Scania over there is mine. Eight hundred horsepower.”

“Nice machine.”

“Do you like trucks?”

“Trucks, yes.”

“And truck drivers?”

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

“I get off at four,” Marcos said without moving.

Kwame waited in the truck with the music on. Marcos appeared on time, showered and wearing comfortable clothes. He climbed in without needing to be asked twice.

“Before I drop you in Las Aldeas, we’ll take a little detour.”

The cab was spacious. There were photographs tucked into the sun visors: a tall, sturdy woman, four children of different ages, a pair of elderly people standing in front of a country house. On a small shelf, condoms and wet wipes.

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

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

There was a picture: an impressively sized cock beside an arm, to show the scale.

“CAREFUL MARCOS HE’S A CANNON AND DOESN’T SHOW MERCY”

Kwame saw it out of the corner of his eye.

“The waitress warned you.”

“Well... yes.”

“And?”

Marcos hesitated.

“Well, let’s just say...”

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

“Now you can see it in the flesh.”

Marcos stared at it for quite a while without saying anything. Kwame put on his turn signal and turned onto a dirt road that descended between pine trees to a clearing. He parked and switched off the engine. He pulled Marcos toward him and kissed him. It wasn’t a tentative kiss. Marcos answered with both hands clutching his shirt.

They moved to the bunk in the cab.

Kwame worked Marcos’s ass with his fingers and mouth for quite a while, unhurried, opening him little by little. He massaged his buttocks and slapped them, making them tremble. Marcos moaned with his face buried in the mattress. When Kwame rolled him over and guided his head downward, Marcos did it without hesitation, with that genuine clumsiness no pretense can imitate. He licked the head, went down to the balls, came back up, and squeezed with his lips.

“Do you think you can take all of this?” Kwame asked.

“I want to try.”

They used Vaseline. Marcos climbed on top, controlling his descent inch by inch, finding each limit and pushing past it. The first time he got halfway. The second, three-quarters. He was sweating, jaw clenched, but he didn’t stop.

“All of it,” he said in a broken voice. “I want all of it.”

“On three.”

On the third, Kwame pushed up from below and Marcos let all his weight drop.

“God!”

He stayed still for a few seconds, adjusting to the heat and the size. Then Kwame began pumping from below with short movements, and Marcos found a rhythm he hadn’t known he possessed. He came on top of him, spilling all the way up Kwame’s neck. Kwame roared and came through clenched teeth.

Marcos remained there for another minute, eyes shining, his ass throbbing.

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

“What do they call you?” he asked from the sidewalk.

“The Machine.”

He started up with a sharp blast of the horn and took to the road.

***

That night there were festivities in Las Aldeas. Four illuminated streets, an improvised bar, loud music, and the entire town out in the street. Carmen had put on a low-cut black dress and left her hair loose. For two years, the neighbors had looked at her suspiciously: they called her haughty, cold, an outsider who never quite fit in. She cared little.

Kwame appeared around eleven. Freshly showered, wearing his gold chain, the Hawaiian shirt open over his chest, his jeans showing everything. He entered the square, and the spotlights bounced off his skin. He found Carmen at the bar and positioned himself beside her without beating around the bush.

“So you had something to do with the rancher everyone talks about around here.”

“Business that went bad. I paid the consequences with time and with my body.”

“And now you serve tables in a godforsaken town.”

“Do I look too old to you?”

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

“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 called loudly. “If you don’t get your period in a few weeks, call me. I’m the kind who takes responsibility for the consequences.”

Marcos turned red to the tips of his ears and hurried away without looking back.

“You’re an asshole,” Carmen said, amused and incredulous at once. “With men too?”

“Anything worthwhile.”

“And now me?”

“You made your decision a while ago.”

Carmen stared at him for a moment. Then she stood and began walking toward her street. Kwame followed.

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

He pulled down the straps of her dress, unfastened her bra, and buried his mouth in her breasts. She opened his belt, slipped her hand inside, and pulled him out. She held him in her palm and weighed him calmly.

“My God.”

Muted music came from the square through the shutters. Firecrackers. The incandescent flicker of fireworks slipping between the slats.

They did sixty-nine. Carmen on top, taking as much into her mouth as she could and working it in spirals with her hand. Kwame licked her pussy and ass by turns, his long, active tongue keeping her asshole open with both hands. Outside came the dull sound of rockets, while the light pulsed through the shutters in irregular bursts.

When Carmen couldn’t take any more, Kwame turned her over. He put her on her knees at the edge of the bed and entered her without a condom, all at once, to the hilt.

“Ohh!”

The pace built from the very beginning. Every thrust echoed through the bedroom. He held her hips with both hands, then slipped his thumb into her ass while continuing to move. He tousled her hair with his other hand and bent her backward. Carmen stared at the ceiling with shining eyes, breathing through her mouth, unable to form a word.

“I’m going to come!”

She did, long and completely, squirting and soaking the sheets. Kwame spat on her ass, pushed the head inside, and came with a roar he didn’t try to contain.

Fifteen minutes later he emerged into the square with his shirt open over his chest. The neighbors whispered among themselves. A woman shook her head. He stopped at a fairground stall and bought a bag of toys without looking at the price. He returned to the truck and reclined in the seat with the window open, the warm night settling over him, the firecrackers dying out in the distance.

At six in the morning he started the engine and put on his turn signal.

The highway 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 left in the area.

At El Cruce Bar, Carmen served the first coffees of the day without saying a word. But Sandra arrived late, 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 raising her eyes from the glasses. “And he’s right.”