Hauling Christmas

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The overhead light in the sleeper cabin behind the Mack truck cab was on dim, casting an eerie light over Mack, nicknamed for driving semis, who was covering the young sailor. It was a little over a week before Thanksgiving. Long Beach was where he’d picked up the cute little guy in his alluring sailor whites when Mack was taking on a load off the docks there to drive to Kansas City. The very-young-looking, nineteen-year-old sailor, coming off his first cruise, said he was headed south to Fort Worth—home for the holidays, he’d said—and had begged for a ride and agreed to be ridden to get it. The truck was parked at the Flying J truck center in Barstow, California, where the highways—and Mack and the sailor—split and where Mack would be taking I-15 north and the sailor would be looking for an ongoing ride west and south on I-40.

The sailor, small of body, barely able to raise a beard, cute and willowy, was on all fours on the bed that took up most of the sleeper cabin. He was doing what he’d only recently, on his first cruise, learned to do for sailors on board ship. He was taking cock—massive cock in this instance.

He was still in his white jumper, but that was all. Mack, large and formidable, especially in contrast to the young sailor, was hovering over the young man, embracing the sailor’s chest, his hand up under the jumper, clutching the sailor’s pecs, holding the little guy close and steady as he moved his hips, mining the sailor’s channel to a steady beat. The sailor was writhing and huffing and puffing as Mack penetrated him with a beer-can cock, not appreciably long, but almost impossibly thick. The young man was especially aware of the thick cock ring pressing at the latex of the condom in the truck driver’s cock head. This was the first time the sailor was being fucked by a cock with a thick stud in its head, and all of the young man’s groaning senses were focused there.

It had been all sex. They hadn’t even exchanged names. The sailor was nervous, trying out for the first time how he could get from the ship to Fort Worth without having to shell out any money, and Mack wanting to only think of his winter holiday haul pickups as convenient pieces of ass rather than young men with names and lives of their own.

Mack, in his mid-forties, was an avid bodybuilder, hanging onto youth as best he could. He also was into leather and tattoos and piercings. Tom of Finland was the look he went for when he was trucking, the look that attracted the young guys looking for adventure and manhandling.

He was a divinely built, handsome man of commanding musculature, his torso and arms covered with intricate, expensively done, tattooing, and a diamond stud in his right earlobe and gold bars in his nipples. If he were an ugly man, other men would give him a wide berth, but he wasn’t. He was strikingly good looking and had a great smile. It was obvious he was a man’s man, a Tom of Finland, but other seeking men gravitated to him, wanting to ride on the wild side and intuitively knowing he’d treat them right—and, if not exactly right, he’d fuck them totally—certainly something to think about and savor at Christmas.

Fully mounted and saddled, Mack held steady on the young man’s back. Trembling, but also holding steady now, fully possessed by the stretching shaft, the sailor settled down for the initially slow in and out, in and out fuck.

“Shit, that cock ring,” he moaned.

Mack was in his favorite gear for action such as this. His torso was encased by the leather harness, with the ring pressed under his bulging pecs, he was wearing his black leather wristbands and his black-leather studded captain’s hat, and his shiny black leather combat boots were on his feet. He was Tom of Finland, fucking his boy.

He held the sailor close under him, mounted on his tail like a dog, and thrust and thrust, picking up speed and intensity as the sailor held under him, shuddering and shimmering, whimpering and panting, taking the impossibly thick shaft and rub of the cock ring, one of the sailor’s hands moving between his legs to stroke himself off, while the other hand and his knees took the position. Even though the truck was heavy, the motion of the fuck was causing the cabin to sway a little, not unlike what the sailor felt on board his ship at sea while one sailor after the other was gangbanging him. Mack was taking most of his own weight on the soles of his feet buried on either side of the sailor’s calves, raising his arms in the concluding increasingly vigorous thrusts, and grasping strap loops in the interior of the cabin sides to hold himself in place as he drove hard to his ejaculation.

The sailor cried out in pain-passion and collapsed under Mack onto the narrow, vinyl-covered bed in the dim light as Mack tensed and jerked and came, tensed and jerked and came.

It wasn’t the first time they’d fucked in the sleeping cabin. They’d done so where Mack had picked the sailor up in San Berdino at a truck stop. But this had been a better fuck istanbul travesti than the first time. The sailor had known what to expect—what was expected of him, which wasn’t much—and, having taken the beer-can cock before was better prepared to take it a second time.

Inside the café in the Flying J truck stop, eighteen-year-old Tanner, nudging the duffel bag beside his chair, was nursing a cup of coffee and staring out of the window, looking for something out in the lot where the tractor-trailer trucks were parked. Some drivers were out and about in the lot, gathering in small conversation group. But the drivers of many of the semis were snoozing in their sleeper cabs, building up the energy to start the next leg of their cross-continent drive, hauling the nation’s goods to market from the ports in the weeks building up to the Christmas season.

Tanner, small, blond, preppy looking, saw the sailor, also small, compact, moving gingerly, looking spiffy in his sailor whites and hefting a white duffel bag, climb, with effort, out of the sleeping cab of one of the tractor trailers, a humongous Mack truck, and hobble deeper into the parked fleet. Tanner scrutinized the sailor, speculating where he’d been and what he’d been doing, as the young man approached a couple of drivers who were leaning against a truck and jawing. A few minutes later, a real hunk of a guy, not too old but not too young, muscular and strutting like he owned the place, came out of the sleeper cab. He was dressed in faded jeans, topped by a fancy Western-style cotton shirt with fancy detailing and silver studs on a yoke collar and along the shoulders. The studded black-leather captain’s hat and shiny combat boots gave him a dangerous look. Tanner shuddered and felt the “coming-to-life” arousal going through his tight little body.

That was the one. If he was headed east in that rig, that was the one Tanner was looking for.

Mesmerized by the size and bearing of the dark-haired truck driver, Tanner watched Mack strut across the asphalt separating the Flying J building from the truckers’ parking lot, enter the building, and head back toward where the shower facilities were for the truckers. Tanner didn’t miss the diamond stud in Mack’s ear, the satisfied look on his face, or the baggie he was carrying in his hand containing what unmistakably was a spent Trojan Magnum condom.

The truck driver gave a little scowl as he entered the Flying J building. The place was decorated—tackily decorated—for Christmas, with a lot of stringy red, gold, and white tinselly stuff hanging around on the walls. It wasn’t even Thanksgiving yet and the Christmas decorations were already going up. Not that it mattered all that much to Mack, who would be on the road, moving goods, most of the holiday season—right up to Christmas. He always paused his driving to be at home, on the lake, in Gunnison, Colorado, for Christmas. There wasn’t much other for him to do at home in this season, though. There wasn’t anyone but his dog and a few casually friendly neighbors waiting for him there. This was his busy season in a job that was slowly decreasing for him. He made sure he was on the road for the winter holidays. It was all for the little gifts he gave himself while on the road.

And, speaking of gifts, Mack’s eyes had looked beyond the Christmas decorations and picked out the cute little blond piece watching him from the café as well, and he let his assessing look become blatant as the two focused on each other. He also made sure the baggie he was carrying with the spent condom in it could be seen.

The kid, the only one seated in the café at the moment, wasn’t more than eighteen or nineteen, Mack thought. He was small, perfectly proportioned, dressed preppy, good-looking, with an eager puppy demeanor, and had a gold loop earring in his right ear. That wasn’t supposed to mean much anymore, but Mack, who was good at picking them out, knew that, combined with other signals, it did mean something. As he marched back to the showers to dispose of the used condom and to shower up for the run up to Vegas, Denver, and beyond, he also noticed the duffel bag on the floor at the kid’s feet.

Maybe the sweet piece wanted a ride in exchange for being ridden, Mack thought. Maybe he’d still be here waiting for me when I finished my shower. This is what Mack got on the road for during the winter holiday season—this was his “gifts to myself” season.

* * * *

Mack didn’t have to wait. When he came out of the shower into the locker room, Tanner was there, leaning up against the bank of lockers. They stood there, Tanner with eyes wide in the wonder of what he was looking at and Mack, entering the locker room from the shower, holding the knot of his towel with one hand.

“Shit, just look at those tattoos,” Tanner said, his eyes getting big.

Mack laughed. “You like tattoos, kid?” he asked.

“Sure,” Tanner said after a pause. Then, boldly, “Can I touch them?”

Mack laughed. “Knock yourself istanbul travestileri out,” he said. with a smirk, letting his towel fall and standing there naked. “Got ’em down here too.” Would this kid really be this easy? He looked around the area. Anyone else here? No one in sight. He could take him here, but, no, there was too much risk of someone coming in. There were several trucks in the lot. The risk was high that one of those drivers would want to shower just as he got the sweetie under him. This was why he had the semi with the sleeping compartment behind the cab.

Tanner sucked in air, “Fuck,” he said, his eyes going to the size of Mack’s dark cock and balls and to the cock ring in the shaft’s head. The cock was on the rise. Tanner knew the man wanted him.

The dance had begun.

Mack was of a mixed breed—a bit of everything, including Hispanic, black, and white. His cock and balls were from black sires. Tanner didn’t shy away. He moved closer and touched the tattooing on Mack’s muscular chest, covered in light swirls of dark hair that didn’t hide the tattoos but, rather, seemed to animate them. An index finger went to one of Mack’s nipples, with puffed up, and lingered there. Their eyes locked as the finger slid down Mack’s torso to below his waist briefly before going back to a nipple. There was nothing subtle about this kid—about what he wanted and what’d do for a guy, a guy like Mack.

“Fuck is good,” Mack said, knowing that they would. He’d take the little piece back to his sleeper cab and fuck the hell of him—and the young guy would let him do it. He took Tanner’s free hand and moved it down to his crotch. Tanner didn’t flinch from that either, but Mack didn’t push for more than a touch there with the fingers of that hand too before he released the young man’s hand. He’d already decided they couldn’t do it here—shouldn’t try to do it here.

Mack took Tanner’s other arm by the wrist and moved the young man’s hand away from his chest, but he held the hand for several seconds longer than necessary, applying pressure to establish his dominance, and smiled at Tanner.

“Can I buy you something to drink when I’ve dressed,” Mack asked.

“Yes, please,” Tanner said, a slight look of confusion on his face. He too had thought of doing it here. He hadn’t thought of the risks like Mack had. He wasn’t accustomed to thinking of the risks of these situations that Mack was. His eyes, roving all over the man’s muscular and tattooed body, were unabashedly taking it all in.

“What’s your name?” Mack asked in a low, calm voice. Time to put a bit of a damper on this, for now. But why this way, he thought. He had a strict rule about exchanging names with his prey. Why had he abandoned that? What did this kid have that the others hadn’t? It was something, that was for sure.

“Tanner. Tanner Davis.”

“I’m Mack, as in the truck I came here in.” It wasn’t his real name, of course, but for the months on the road, it was him. When he was on the road during the winter holiday season, he was Mack, but he also was Tom of Finland.

“I saw your truck. It’s big.”

“Everything about me is big, kid.”

“I can see that,” Tanner said.

“Wait for me in the café. I’ll dress and come out to you.” And then, in not very long, I will come in you, he was thinking. We’ll both have a ball balling. But he didn’t say it. Time to damp this down until he could get the guy in his sleeper cabin. Everything was set up for games in the sleeper cabin. Mack was already thinking of positions to put the young man in there. There were hanger straps all over the place to use to trap wrists and ankles—to incapacitate his prey and put them in good positions. He didn’t have great length, so the access had to be open. But, god could he screw them to the bed with his thickness. He could make them squeal. They all whimpered and squealed for him. He was Tom of Finland.

He liked this kid. Not only was he easy on the eyes, a sexy little piece, or that he was being easy to get. The guy had spunk and he turned Mack on as much as any guy he’d humped before. He was raw and straightforward. He reacted well to everything Mack had said or had shown he was and what he intended to do. He wanted to have the guy for the long haul to Denver. He was a real present. Mack would savor him. He’d fuck the shit out of him, of course.

Tanner obviously heard the instruction to leave the locker room, but he didn’t go to the café immediately. He backed away to where he had originally been standing, leaning up against lockers, but remained there, watching Mack dress, which the man did slowly, obviously like he liked being watched and worshipped by the kid’s eyes.

Tanner’s eyes again went wide when he saw Mack pulling the black-leather harnessing onto his chest before covering it with the Western-style, long-sleeved shirt. Tanner’s interest and arousal grew as he watched Mack take on his chosen character—the boots and wristbands coming on after the harness travesti istanbul and the shirt, and it all topped off by the black-leather captain’s hat. Tanner got that Mack was becoming Tom of Finland. He was Mack when he was driving and Tom of Finland when he was fucking.

Once the man got the shirt on, though, the raw sexuality of the character became tamped down—for public consumption, the young man thought. One couldn’t tell other than at the edge of the man’s exposed wrists that his torso was covered in tattoos. He looked like a whole different man than he did just in the torso harness and black-leather boots. Then, when he’d snapped on the leather wristbands, the tattooing disappeared even there. But there, for a moment, Mack had shown Tanner what was on offer—that, for Tanner, Mack would be Tom of Finland and all the raw, rough, sexuality that that portended.

Tanner stood, leaning against the locker, unabashedly rubbing his crouch and watching Mack dress until the wristbands and cap were being put in place, and then he retreated to the café, where he had left his duffel bag. No one else was in the café.

When Mack entered, he bought two coffees without asking Tanner if that was what he wanted and sauntered over to the table, putting the coffees down, and turning a chair around and straddling it in reverse. Both of them understood the uncoordinated choice of the coffee meant more than something to drink. Mack would provide what he wanted to and Tanner would take it.

“Great looking truck out there,” Tanner said when they were settled.

“Yes, I like it. It’s my home on the road.”

“It’s got a sleeper cabin behind the cab. That’s where you sleep with you’re on the road—rather than staying in motels?”

“Yes, it does have a good sleeper cabin, and, yes, it’s where I sleep—and do other stuff.” The words sounded benign, but they all had sexual meaning. Everything said was part of the dance. Mack’s clipped tones were a matter of maintaining control, showing who was boss—being Tom of Finland.

“Are you headed east or west?” Tanner asked.

“East, from Long Beach. You?” This was a significant point. Were they going in the same direction so that Mack could take him along and use him en route, or were they separating here—would Mack have to take him out to the truck now and bang the hell out of him in a one and done? That would almost be best. He sensed danger with this kid—the danger of wanting more.

“East, I hope. I need a ride east.”

“I offer rides—for a ride,” Mack said.

“Just one ride?” Tanner asked, showing a saucy smile.

“OK, rides—as often as I want them between here and Denver.”

“And if I wanted it more often?” The kid was laying it on thick. It didn’t make him less arousing to Mack.

“I doubt you could.” I’m Tom of Finland. I’ll fuck you silly, Mack was thinking. His look was intensive enough to convey that to Tanner, who shuddered, but held steady.

“What are you hauling?” Tanner was looking down at the surface of the table. Was it time to totally capitulate yet or did they want to dance a bit more?

“Christmas trees. Hauling them to Kansas City. You going in that direction, that far?”

“That direction, to Denver. Won’t Christmas trees dry out before you get them that far?”

Mack laughed. “They’re fake trees. From China. Shittin’ fake trees for Christmas from a heathen country.”

“You like the real better?” Tanner.

“Fuckin’ right,” Mack said. “I like it real. I like it real in everything, not just in Christmas trees.”

“And raw? Do you gotta have it raw?” Tanner asked. Was this another sticking point? Hardly, Mack thought.

“Naw, I do safe—usually.” He’d flashed the baggie with the used Trojan at the kid earlier. The kid knew he’d used a rubber the last time. They were just marking time, beating around the bush, at this point. That there would be a main event was settled. They were just covering details now. “But I do real. I do rough. What you see is what you get. And I like to give and give and give. Understand?”

“Yes,” Tanner answered.

“And give and give,” Mack repeated. He needed to settle this cocky kid—and he did.

Tanner visibly shuddered. Mark reached over and grasped the young man’s wrist. Tanner didn’t pull away.

“What are you doing out on the highway without wheels of your own, son?” Mack asked. “You’re after a ride east—in exchange for giving a ride, right?”

“Yes,” Tanner said. “I’m going to my dad’s house in Denver. I can’t take my mother’s boyfriend anymore.”

“You’ve taken your mother’s boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t want to be taken by men?”

“Not by my mother’s boyfriend.”

“But you’ve willingly gone with other men? You know what we’re talking about here? I’m in it to party, not to shock or teach some reluctant or sassy virgin who will break down on the challenge of carry through.”

“Yes, and yes.”

“So, you’ve been ridden by men before. By this boyfriend, and by others maybe too?”

“Yes.”

“You’re looking for a ride all the way to Denver, are you?”

“Yes.”

“If I give you a ride to Denver, I’ll be riding you to Denver, stopping at nearly every rest area between here and there to do my business.”

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