The Truck Driver Who Hunted Me Down at the Rest Stop

I’d been obsessed for months with changing my bike. I’ve got a naked bike I use to commute to work and to sneak off into the hills on some Sundays, but I wanted a custom, one of those monsters that weigh a ton and let you ride for hours without your kidneys complaining. Ever since I got involved with Bruno, a biker I met at a rally, I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. His black Yamaha obsessed me almost as much as the way he’d fucked me in the hotel parking lot.

I found a 2010 Yamaha XV1900 online in Vigo, immaculate, with a windshield, semi-rigid saddlebags, and chrome auxiliary lights. The price was reasonable and the mileage ridiculous. I called the dealership, spoke to the owner, and the next day I caught a flight that got me to Galicia in an hour and a half. When I saw it parked at the entrance, I knew it was mine before I even touched it. It sounded deep, with a purr that got under your skin.

I made the transfer, signed the papers — the registration would be mailed to me — and took the chance to buy all the gear too. A track mate, a veteran of motorcycle trips, always repeated the same mantra to me: you’ve got to dress as if you’re going to crash in the very next kilometer. In summer he recommended wearing cycling shorts and a technical T-shirt under the jacket to absorb sweat. I bought everything there and then: ventilated jacket and pants, modular helmet, short gloves, and reinforced boots. I slept that night in a hostel near the port and set out at dawn.

The plan was to cross into Portugal and follow the Atlantic coast down to Coimbra, then cut inland toward Cáceres and head for Málaga by the long route. Three unhurried days. The first day was lovely: secondary roads, flowing curves, villages with names I didn’t know how to pronounce, and a Portuguese coffee every time I stopped for gas. The bike weighed much more than mine, but that weight turned into serenity as soon as you got above a hundred.

I had lunch in Coimbra and kept heading south. I crossed the border through a ghost customs post, with no one there, the sun still high. By late afternoon the fatigue started making itself felt in my lower back. I saw a service area with two trucks parked any old how and a greasy sign promising sandwiches and coffee. I pulled in. I took off my jacket and gloves, stowed them in the top case, left the helmet hooked to the seat, and went into the café with my technical shirt stuck to my body.

There was hardly anyone inside. The waitress was leaning on the bar looking at her phone. Two truckers, each at his own table, occupied the dining room. One looked to be in his sixties and was watching a muted game. The other made me lift my head the moment I came in.

Early thirties, I guessed. Tight white T-shirt stretched to the limit, arms the size of my thigh, square jaw, and a head shaved clean. He wasn’t handsome in the usual sense of the word, but he had that gym-animal look that makes your mouth go dry. And from the very first second he never took his eyes off me.

I ordered an iced coffee at the bar. I drank slowly, trying not to look back. Every time I turned my head even a little, he was still locked on me. When I emptied the glass, I decided I was done pretending. I paid, went out into the hallway, and entered the bathrooms.

The restroom was spacious: on the left, two showers separated by curtains; at the back, a row of four urinals and, against the opposite wall, three toilet stalls with doors that reached to the floor. I took the last urinal, unfastened my belt and the buttons on my pants, pulled my cycling shorts down to my thighs, took out my cock and started pissing with the physical relief of someone who’s been holding it in for hours.

I was shaking it off when I heard the door open and heavy steps coming closer. Without looking, I knew it was him. He smelled like clean sweat and cheap cologne. He took the adjacent urinal, dropped his track pants and underwear without the slightest attempt at discretion, and pulled out his cock. He wasn’t pissing.

My eyes went there on their own. It was thick and long, still soft, with a big dark head and a pair of heavy balls hanging between his thighs. When I looked up, he was looking at me.

“You like it?”

I nodded. My voice wouldn’t come out at first.

“Are you mute?” he asked, half smiling, half challenging me.

“No… no, of course not. It’s beautiful.”

He took my wrist with a hand that felt like a boxing glove and guided it to his cock. I closed my fingers around it.

“Easy,” he said. “It doesn’t bite.”

I started stroking his skin up and down, slowly. I felt him grow in a matter of seconds. His cock got hard and hot in my hand and, meanwhile, his other hand slipped through the open waistband of my pants. He found my ass without needing to search, and slid one finger between my cheeks to the very center of my sphincter.

“Fuck, you’re all sweaty,” he said in a low voice. “Just how I like it.”

“Not here,” I whispered. “Someone might see us.”

“You worried about that?”

“Yes.”

“Come on.”

***

He dragged me by the arm to the last stall and locked the door behind us. The space was narrow; we barely fit in there together. He grabbed my face with both hands — each one covering half my head — and kissed me. It wasn’t a soft kiss: he sucked on my lips, bit my lower lip, shoved his tongue all the way down my throat, and left it there while he breathed into my mouth.

“The second I saw you come into the café, I knew what a little slut you were,” he murmured against my lips.

He hauled my T-shirt up to the back of my neck, leaving my nipples bare. He lowered his head and took one in his teeth. I moaned, tried to smother it, couldn’t. He pinched them, bit them, sucked them as if he wanted to tear them off.

“Bastard,” I gasped. “You’re melting me.”

He shoved me by the shoulders until I was sitting on the toilet. He yanked his shirt off in one motion, pulled his track pants and underwear down to his ankles, and stood in front of me completely naked, his cock pointing straight at my face. He was a fucking monument to the gym: pectorals like blocks, defined abs, veins in his forearms.

“Suck it,” he ordered. “Let’s see what you know how to do.”

I took the base in my right hand and started with his balls. I licked his thighs, sucked each testicle into my mouth one by one, taking them in whole and clicking my tongue against them. I worked my way up his shaft with the tip of my tongue, slowly, tracing the thick vein running along it to the frenulum. I kissed his glans, dipped the tip of my tongue into the hole, played with it until he let out the first real gasp.

“Fuck, slut…”

I took it in all the way. Well, as all the way as it fit without breaking my jaw. I started sucking it with my mouth and hands working together, going up and down, leaving a thread of saliva between my mouth and his body every time I pulled off to catch my breath.

He didn’t last long before taking control. He grabbed the back of my neck with both hands and started fucking my mouth, driving into it at his own rhythm, not caring whether I could breathe or not. The tip slammed against my uvula every time he thrust in. My eyes filled with tears and a thick strand of spit dripped from my chin down to my chest. I wanted to push him away with my hands on his hips, but he was twice as strong as me.

“Fuck, slut, you really can take cock…”

“Argg…”

And then he yanked his cock out, gave it two strokes with his hand, and started to unload. The first burst hit my left eye and ran down my cheek. The second hit my lips. The third hit my chin. He came like he’d been saving it for a week, in heavy spurts that smelled strong.

“Clean it off.”

I bent down, ran my tongue over his cum-smeared cock until it shone, and then, without thinking too hard about it, I wiped my face with the back of my hand and licked my fingers too.

***

He grabbed my nipples to force me to stand. He turned me around and made me put my hands against the stall wall. The tiles were cold. I wasn’t.

“You’re soaked in sweat,” he said in my ear. “I love it.”

He started licking my back. My spine, my shoulder blades, the nape of my neck. He went down to the waistband of my pants and, without stopping kissing my skin, pulled them down all the way. He took one boot off, pulled one entire leg out of my pants and cycling shorts, and left the other trapped in the fabric. Better for him: that way I was more open.

“Fuck, what an ass you’ve got, little faggot.”

I arched my back and pushed my hips backward. He bit my right cheek, spread both of them with his hands, and spat hard into the center. I felt the spit run down the crack before his finger went in.

“Well, well. This ass has seen things.”

“Are you going to talk the whole time or are you going to fuck me?”

He laughed under his breath. I could feel the heat of his body inches from mine and the smell of man-sweat, that mix of locker room and sex that gets me hotter than anything else in the world. I heard him tear open a packet — at least he’d come prepared. When he pressed himself against my back again, his cock was already nudging my asshole from the outside.

He spat again. He grabbed my hips. He set the tip in place. And, without warning, he shoved hard.

“Ah, fuck!” I blurted out.

“If it’s open, what’s the problem.”

“Shut up.”

He pulled almost all the way out and drove back in with one single motion. Each thrust lifted my heels off the floor. Every time he went all the way in, he stayed still for a moment, wrapped around my back, licking the nape of my neck, scratching my sides, pinching my nipples, giving my ass hard slaps.

“Didn’t you want me to fuck your ass?” he panted.

“Ah, bastard.”

“Then take ass.”

He sped up. I held on with my forearms against the wall, feeling sweat run down my back and mix with the saliva he kept leaving between my shoulder blades. My cock, abandoned between my thigh and the toilet, dripped precome onto the floor.

“My legs…” I let slip. “They won’t hold me up.”

“Hold on, slut.”

One hand grabbed my waist to hold me up. The other moved up and caught me by the T-shirt knotted at the back of my neck, pulling on it like reins. The thrusts became short, quick, mechanical.

“I’m gonna come,” he growled. “I’m gonna come.”

I clenched my sphincter with everything I had left. I wanted to feel every contraction, every pulse. His last thrust shoved my face against the tiles and then I felt it: the tremble, the stiffness, the thick pulses beating inside the condom as he emptied himself with his teeth sunk into my shoulder.

While he was still finishing, his free hand found my cock and started jerking me off clumsily, hurriedly. No more was needed. Five seconds later I was spraying my own load onto the wall and the toilet bowl, panting like a dog and with my knees on the verge of giving out.

***

He made me turn around and sit back down on the toilet. There, in front of my face, his cock was still hard with the condom on. There were brown traces on the tip. Not much, just enough for both of us to notice.

“Oops. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, smiling. “If you go into the burrow, you come out with fur.”

He laughed for real for the first time. He took paper from the roll, carefully removed the condom, and before he could toss it in the bin, a thread of cum slid down from the base to his balls.

“Clean it off,” he repeated.

I bent down again. I licked his balls, gathered the cum with my tongue, worked my way back up his shaft to the glans, gluttonous as if it were the first and last time. When I finished, his cock was shining.

“You like the taste, slut?”

I was about to answer something, I don’t know what, when I heard a dull sound above us. I looked up. In the neighboring stall, peering through the gap between the wall and the ceiling, there were a pair of eyes fixed on both of us. The face disappeared the moment it met mine. We heard the latch on the other stall, quick footsteps, the bathroom door open and close.

“Well,” said my lover. “We had an audience.”

“Who was it?”

“The other truck driver. He’s a voyeur. He jerks off watching people fuck.”

“The Lord’s vineyard holds all sorts.”

We got dressed in silence, each of us settling our clothes with the practiced ease of people who’ve done this before. We washed our faces at the sink without speaking. Before leaving, he took out his phone.

“Give me your number. If I pass through Málaga, I’ll let you know.”

I went out into the sun with my legs still shaky. The bike was still there, patient, with the helmet hanging from the seat. I put on my jacket, gloves, and helmet. I started it up. The engine rumbled deep beneath me.

I still had three hours to Cáceres and a few more to home, but I’d gotten my ass thoroughly serviced and had a new number in my contacts. As I left the service area and took the highway, I thought that bike had already been baptized the way it should be.