Gloryhole Road: Trucers' Prey

The sun melted into the horizon, bleeding fiery reds and golds across the lonely Oregon highway. I'd been driving for hours, the engine's drone rattling my skull, when the gas needle kissed empty. Ahead, a weathered sign flickered awake in the dusk: "Big Rig Haven -- Gas, Grub, and Goods," its neon letters buzzing like dying wasps. Next to it, a hot pink sign throbbed: "Adult Emporium -- 24/7." My thighs ached, my bladder pulsed, and a restless itch clawed at me. Two stops, one dirty detour.

I rolled into the truck stop, tires chewing gravel that snapped like brittle twigs. Stepping out, the evening heat grazed my skin--barely covered by a sweat-drenched white tank top clinging to my chest, denim jean shorts so tight and short they framed the plump undersides of my ass cheeks, and flip-flops smacking the ground, caked with road dust. I stretched, arching my back, and caught the stares of truckers at the pumps--hardened men with weathered faces, their eyes tracing the sway of my exposed flesh. I smirked and strutted toward the adult shop, the pull of something feral dragging me in.

Inside, the air was a stagnant stew--cheap pine air freshener clashing with the rancid musk of sweat and shame. Flickering lights buzzed overhead, illuminating racks of DVDs with screaming covers, neon toys, and magazines splayed open to crusted pages. My pulse hammered as I spotted the sign: "Arcade -- Booths Open," an arrow jabbing toward a shadowed hallway. I slapped a crumpled five on the counter, the cashier--a gaunt man with a patchy beard and yellowed teeth--grunting as he slid me tokens, their cold clatter biting my palm. The hallway swallowed me, narrow and dim, the walls throbbing with tinny porn moans--wet slaps and fake gasps leaking through cracked doors. I picked a booth, its door groaning on rusty hinges. The air inside was swampy, the floor a tacky mire under my flip-flops, and a small screen flickered with grainy flesh. A jagged gloryhole gaped in the wall, its duct-taped edges stained with faint, oily smudges.

I dropped a token, the slot clanking alive. My shorts bit into my thighs, denim stretched tight as my cock swelled against the zipper, fueled by the raw thrill of this dive. I unzipped, the sound sharp, and slid myself through the hole, the cool air beyond prickling my skin. Nothing at first--just the video's looped grunts and my ragged breaths misting the air. Then, a hot, greedy mouth closed around me, lips plush and tongue swirling with ravenous skill. I groaned, hands braced on the wall, hips bucking as the wet pull dragged me deeper.

The door crashed open with a splintering bang. I froze, cock still thrust through, as a giant loomed in the frame. He was a grizzled beast--6'4", built like a linebacker gone to seed, his barrel chest straining a faded red flannel, the sleeves rolled up over forearms corded with muscle and smeared with black grease. His beard was a wiry gray tangle, his face a roadmap of sun-leathered creases, and his eyes--dark, predatory slits--locked on me. His jeans hung low under a paunch, stained with oil and sweat, and his boots were scuffed steel-toes, caked in mud. He stepped in, the door slamming shut, shrinking the booth with his bulk. His hand--a meaty paw, knuckles scarred and nails grimy--clamped onto my ass, squeezing the exposed curve below my shorts with bruising force. I gasped as he ripped the denim down, the fabric scraping my thighs before puddling around my ankles. He spat--a wet, guttural gob--onto his fingers, and shoved two thick digits into me, rough and deep, twisting as I whimpered, the burn lacing with a dark, submissive rush.

"Too fuckin' small," he snarled, his voice a gravelly rumble, thick with a Southern drawl. He yanked his fingers out with a slick pop, grabbed my arm--his grip a vise--and dragged me out, my flip-flops lost to the filth. The shorts stayed behind, a crumpled rag on the sticky floor. He hauled me down the hall to a larger booth, its air sour with bleach and the ghost of sweat. A cracked vinyl bench squatted against the wall, bolted down, its surface peeling like burnt skin. He shoved me in, my palms slapping the bench, tank top riding up as sweat beaded down my spine.

He tore my tank top off, the fabric screeching as it shredded, leaving me bare. "Bend over," he growled, his breath hot with tobacco and stale coffee. I folded over the bench, ass up, cheeks quivering. His belt clanked--metal grinding--and his jeans dropped, revealing thighs matted with coarse hair. His cock jutted out, thick and veined, the head glistening with pre-cum. He pressed against me, breaching me with a savage thrust, splitting me open as I cried out, the brutal stretch igniting pain and pleasure. He pounded me, his gut slapping my back, hairy thighs smacking my ass with wet, meaty thuds.

A cold vial nudged my nose, glass clinking my teeth. "Sniff," he grunted, his beard brushing my shoulder. I inhaled, the acrid poppers searing my lungs, and euphoria erupted--my body melted, every nerve ablaze with reckless bliss. The booth's grime, his relentless rhythm, the open door revealing onlookers--all blurred into a shimmering haze. His groan was a primal roar as he buried himself deep, unloading a hot, thick flood inside me, pulsing with each shudder. He pulled out, leaving me dripping, slumped against the bench.

Another stepped up--a wiry man, 5'10", with a hawkish face, all sharp cheekbones and a crooked nose broken one too many times. His trucker hat was cocked low, faded John Deere green, and his patchy stubble was flecked with gray. His frame was lean, sinewy under a stained wifebeater, his arms ropy with muscle and inked with faded tattoos--a skull, a snake. His cock sprang from unzipped fly, slender but rigid, and he slid into me with a sloppy ease, the mess from the first slicking his way, his bony hips grinding as he grunted.

Next, a stocky brute--5'8", wide as he was tall, his gut spilling over a cracked leather belt. His face was ruddy, pockmarked from teenage acne, and his thinning brown hair was slicked back with sweat under a mesh cap. A patchy mustache curled over his lip, and his hands--stubby, calloused--groped my hips as he thrust, short and frantic, his breath a wheeze of exertion, his plaid shirt unbuttoned to show a hairy chest glistening with sweat.

Another followed--a lanky 6-footer with a buzzed head, sunburned scalp peeling, and a gaunt face shadowed by a week's stubble. His eyes were bloodshot, his teeth crooked and yellowed, and his denim jacket hung loose over a frame wiry from too much coffee and too little sleep. His cock was long, uncut, and he took me with slow, deliberate strokes, his bony fingers digging into my flesh.

A dozen or more came after--each a rugged caricature of the road: a bald man with a neck tattoo and a gold hoop earring, his beard braided; a hulking figure with a silver mullet and a missing front tooth, his gut jiggling; a young guy, barely 30, with a buzzcut and a nervous grin, his hands trembling but eager. They pounded me, hands groping, grunts echoing, their musk--sweat, cum, diesel, and cheap cologne--choking the air. The door gaped, a semicircle of onlookers in stained jackets and boots, some stroking themselves, others stepping up, their shadows looming.

When it ended, I crumpled to the floor, a wrecked heap, skin slick with their loads and my sweat, the tiles a swamp of cum and grime pooling under me. They faded away, boots thudding, leaving me in the booth's flickering glow, the screen droning on. My body screamed--ass raw, legs jelly--but the poppers' high lingered, a warped calm. I clawed upright, staggering naked through the shop, the cashier's eyes flicking up before dropping. Outside, the night air stung my sticky skin as I limped to my car, fueled up with shaking hands, and peeled out, the truck stop a neon smudge in the dark.