Truck-Stop Love

I don't know why I need it, but I do. I shouldn't have done it, but I can't help myself. He looked as me so provocatively, 'you know you can't do without it,' and he was right. Suddenly, after three long years, I'd finally convinced myself I was over him, it was past, dead, forgotten, but now he's back, here at the M1 Services Quick-Lunch Stand – and I can feel it starting all over again.

'No, please' I say. 'This is a straight job. I'm not doing THAT anymore. Leave me alone.' Determinedly I leave him, carrying the tray. Wipe the next table unsteadily, then retreat back up to the counter. Dave, Dave, why did you have to do it? I'd have done anything for you, I DID do anything for you. Then you left me. Just walked out, vanished without a word of explanation. I was devastated. I'd never known such withdrawal pain. But then I met John who is... kind, considerate, reliable. Everything that Dave isn't. And I'm married now. I'm happy. Sure I'm happy, if sometimes just a little bored. I work waiting tables while the pantechnicons howl by on the M1 fast-lane, and yes, I admit, sometimes I still think of Dave, but only in the past tense.

'I remember how you swallowed me five times in a single night, and you still wanted more.' He leans up against the table as I pass, hissing low so only can hear. 'Can't you still taste it?'

'Lay off' I say weakly.

His hands are in his pockets, pulling the denim material of his Levi's taut across his groin, my attention shifts to the firm erection it cleanly outlines. 'You want it as much as I do' he says.

I swallow nervously and lick my lips. 'No, please Dave, I'll lose my job, I can't.' But the words are defensive now, lacking conviction.

He laughed. 'You'll do it.' The submerged shape in his trousers twitches obscenely, and I catch myself blushing, realising I've been staring fixedly at it. 'I'll wait outside' he said, and turns to leave, walking out through the doors into the video-machine bay beyond.

I deposit the tray nervously, breathing heavily, and go to pick up some plates, all thumbs. I must fight the warm impulses worming their way up from my crotch. No. No. No. Then I'm saying 'is it OK if I take five?'

'Sure' says the Manageress, 'but wash your hands when you come back.'

Hating each step, but drawn magnetically I go to where he's playing the machines. His reflection in the screen is leering arrogantly. 'I knew you'd come. You love it too much to go without.'

'I came to talk, Dave' I said. 'We must talk it out.'

'So, where can we go to 'talk'?'

There was a storeroom just down from the disabled toilets. I have the key on a chain at my belt. He follows me inside, I lock the door behind us, leaving the key in the slot while he leans back up against the dexion racks of crisp-packs and shrink-wrapped cases of chocolate bars. Even as I turn to face him I can hear his zip slide, and then his penis is out, and I'm staring at the sleek angry cock that had once given me so much pleasure.

My temples pound as I squat down, he angles it nonchalantly at my face, revulsion and longing battling inside me. I've worked hard at my marriage, at my job, fighting this crude desire for Dave all the while, now I'm here again, kneeling before him just as I used to. His hand caresses the back of my head, 'you're a cock-sucker, a cum-addict, a spunk-eater, always have been, why fight it?' Perhaps he knows me better than I know myself. I hate his words, but something deep inside tells me that he's right, the smooth hard glans is nudging my face warmly insistent, and obediently my lips part around its salty cock-head as slight pressure draws my willing head down.

'I love IT' I gasp hoarsely, 'but not you.' The words choked in gurgling noises as his cock stretches my mouth out to maximum capacity, and I'm sucking it uncontrollably with a desperate intensity that forces tears of relief from the edge of my eyes, a flood of released sensuality drowning out what little remains of my resistance.

He lets me do the work, watching me as he casually unfastens his belt and shrugs his Levi's down to his knees, as my head bobs in and around his groin, gulping him in, taking it so deep my nose is buried in the wiry masculine musk of his pubic hair, my face up against the heated flesh of his sweaty lower gut, his fat balls squeezing up against my throat lasciviously.

'Up now, fuckee fuckee time' he says, and when I just continue sucking he pulls me back so it slithers free with a wetly audible 'plop', strands of saliva drooling messily across my chin. I'm all fired up now, tugging my tights and panties down with undignified haste and turning, as I know he likes it best, so I'm braced up against the shelving and he can enter me from behind, lifting my uniform skirt clear of my bare bottom and thrusting my hips out towards him as slutty as some street-corner tart.

He steadies his big prick with one dirty paw, and guides it in between my legs where a syrupy moistnesss betrays my readiness. I moan throatily. This is a pure animal fuck, he slides up and into me with the finesse of a rapine rhino, with a violence that lifts me clear onto my toes, I bite my lower lip so hard I draw blood, and when he begins pumping me it's with such force that the shelves I cling to shake and rattle precariously. His hands claw around me, tearing at my uniform until the buttons pop, releasing my large loose breasts, squeezing them until the nipples stand out on stalks. I have to bite my wrist to stop from crying out as orgasm hits me, buckling my knees. He's grunting like a well-hung stud in a porno video, a sound I recognise, a sound I know signals the brink of ejaculation.

But no, I can't risk pregnancy, and as on heat as I am I pull away – 'no, no, cum in my mouth Dave, please, that's how I want it.' And I writhe down and around, taking the twitching pulsing shaft in my hand, messy with pre-cum and cunt-juice, as the first thick jet of spunk spasms at me, hitting my nose and dribbling across my cheek, a second gush creams my lips as I wrench it bucking and jerking into my mouth, swallowing and sucking gratefully, hungrily. I don't release it for long luscious moments, until it begins losing its rigidity despite my oral coaxing. By then the sticky rivulets are cooling down my face and our breathing has steadied.

'Not bad' he says as he pulls his denims up, 'but next time, don't play hard to get, it doesn't suit you. Leave your knickers off ready for me.'

'There won't be a next time, Dave. I'm married. This was a one-off, for old time's sake.'

He laughs in a tone suggesting he knows better. Perhaps he does? Back at the Quick-Lunch Stand the Manageress glances up, 'are you alright? You look flushed,' and I say 'yes, I'm fine.' It was a momentary lapse I shan't repeat, it's over for good. But at the same time I'm thinking, if I WAS to leave my pants off, no-one would know, would they?

I shouldn't have done it, but I couldn't help myself. I don't know why I need it – but I do...

by Tristan Trotsky